i)EPAKTMENT  OF 

KK<r^  ^ ...^.1.^,...I15:.£,iul 

IjIEtIt.AH.Y  OOP' 

University  of  rilinois.  I 


Books  are  not  to  be  taken  from  the  Library  Room. 


The  person  charging  this  material  is  re- 
sponsible for  its  return  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 

Theft,  mutilation,  and  underlining  of  books 
are  reasons  for  disciplinary  action  and  may 
result  in  dismissal  from  the  University. 


University  of  Illinois  Library 


•2  ■» 


1986 


05 

DEC  16 

FEB  1 4 


L161— 0-1096 


¥■ 


\ 


t 


/. 


t 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/uncommercialtrav00dick_3 


CHEAP  THEATRE  — SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL 
TRAVELLER 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WITH  JLLUSTBATIONS. 


NEW  YORK: 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  & CO., 

46  East  Fourteenth  St. 


BERWICK  A SMITH,  PRINTERS,  BOSTON. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 


I. 

Ills  General  Line  of  Business  . 

1 

II. 

The  Shipwreck  .... 

3 

III. 

Wapping  Workhouse 

17 

w. 

Two  Yiews  of  a Cheap  Theatre  . 

29 

Y. 

Poor  Mercantile  Jack  . 

41 

YI. 

Refreshments  for  Travellers  . 

54 

YII. 

Tp.avelling  Abroad 

64 

YIII. 

The  Great  Tasmania’s  Cargo 

77 

IX. 

City  of  London  Churches 

87 

X. 

Shy  Neighborhoods  ... 

99 

XI. 

Tramps  

110 

XII. 

Dullborough  Town  .... 

123 

XIII. 

Night  Walks 

135 

XIY. 

Chambers  

145 

XY. 

Nurse’s  Stories  .... 

158 

XYI. 

Arcadian  London  . 

170 

XYII. 

The  Calais  Night-Mail  . 

180 

XYIII. 

Some  Recollections  of  Mortality 

189 

XIX. 

Birthday  Celebrations 

200 

XX. 

Bound  for  the  Great  Salt  Lake 

211 

XXI. 

The  City  of  the  Absent 

225 

/"^XII.X^N  Old  Stage-coaching  House  . 

234 

XXIII. 

The  Boiled  Beef  of  New  England 

243 

IV 

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEPw 

PAGE 

XXIY. 

Chatham  Dockyard  .... 

. 253 

XXY. 

In  the  French-Flemish  Country 

. 263 

XXVL 

Medicine-Men  of  Civilization  . 

. 275 

XXYII. 

Titbull’s  Almshouses  .... 

. 285 

XXYIIL 

The  Italian  Prisoner  .... 

. 297 

XXIX. 

The  Short-Timers  .... 

. 308 

XXX. 

A Small  Star  in  the  East  . 

. 320 

XXXI. 

Aboard  Ship 

. 333 

XXXII. 

A Little  Dinner  in  an  Hour 

. 344 

XXXIII. 

Mr.  Barlow 

. 352 

XXXIY.X  On  AN  Amateur  Beat  .... 

. 359 

XXXY. 

A Plea  for  Total  Abstinence  . 

. 368 

XXXYI. 

The  Ruffian 

. 373 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

A Cheap  Theatre — Saturday  Night  . c . Frontispiece 

A City  Personage 94 

This  is  a Sweet  Spot,  ain’t  it  ? A Lovelly  Spot  ! ” , . Ill 

Laundresses 146 

Leaving  the  Morgue 194 

Time  and  his  Wife 227 

A Phenomenon  at  Titbull’s  ........  295 

Poodles  going  the  Round 363 


LIBRARY 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAYELLER. 


I. 

HIS  GENERAL  LINE  OF  BUSINESS. 

Allow  me  to  introduce  myself  — first  negatively. 

'No  landlord  is  iny  friend  and  brother,  no  chambermaid 
loves  me,  no  waiter  worships  me,  no  boots  admires  and 
envies  me.  No  round  of  beef  or  tongue  or  ham  is  expressly 
cooked  for  me,  no  pigeon-pie  is  especially  made  for  me,  no 
hotel-advertisement  is  personally  addressed  to  me,  no  hotel- 
room  tapestried  with  great-coats  and  railway  wrappers  is  set 
apart  for  me,  no  house  of  public  entertainment  in  the  United 
Kingdom  greatly  cares  for  my  opinion  of  its  brandy  or  sherry. 
When  I go  upon  my  journeys,  I am  not  usually  rated  at  a 
low  figure  in  the  bill ; when  I come  home  from  my  journeys, 
I never  get  any  commission.  I know  nothing  about  prices, 
and  should  have  no  idea,  if  I were  put  to  it,  how  to  wheedle 
a man  into  ordering  something  he  doesn’t  want.  As  a town 
traveller,  I am  never  to  be  seen  driving  a vehicle  externally 
like  a young  and  volatile  pianoforte  van,  and  internally  like 
an  oven  in  which  a number  of  flat  boxes  are  baking  in  layers. 
As  a country  traveller,  I am  rarely  to  be  found  in  a gig,  and 
am  never  to  be  encountered  by  a pleasure  train,  waiting  on 
the  platform  of  a branch  station,  quite  a Druid  in  the  midst 
of  a light  Stonehenge  of  samples. 

And  yet  — proceeding  now,  to  introduce  myself  positively 
— I am  both  a town  traveller  and  a country  traveller,  and  am 
always  on  the  road.  Figuratively  speaking,  I travel  for  the 
great  House  of  Human  Interest  Brothers,  and  have  rather  a 
large  connection  in  the  fancy  goods  way.  Literally  speaking, 


2 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


I am  always  wandering  here  and  there  from  my  rooms  in 
Covent-garden,  London  — now  about  the  city  streets : now, 
about  the  country  by-roads  — seeing  many  little  things,  and 
some  great  things,  which,  because  they  interest  me,  I think 
may  interest  others. 

These  are  my  brief  credentials  as  the  Uncommercial 
Traveller. 


THE  UJSCOMMEECIAL  TEAVELLEE. 


3 


II. 

THE  SHIPWRECK. 

Never  had  I seen  a year  going  out,  or  going  on,  under 
quieter  circumstances.  Eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-nine  had 
but  another  day  to  live,  and  truly  its  end  was  Peace  on  that 
seashore  that  morning. 

So  settled  and  orderly  was  everything  seaward,  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  sun  and  under  the  transparent  shadows 
of  the  clouds,  that  it  was  hard  to  imagine  the  bay  otherwise, 
for  years  past  or  to  come,  than  it  was  that  very  day.  The 
Tug-steamer  lying  a little  off  the  shore,  the  Lighter  lying 
still  nearer  to  the  shore,  the  boat  alongside  the  Lighter,  the 
regularly  turning  windlass  aboard  the  Lighter,  the  methodical 
figures  at  work,  all  slowly  and  regularly  heaving  up  and  down 
with  the  breathing  of  the  sea,  all  seemed  as  much  a part  of 
the  nature  of  the  place  as  the  tide  itself.  The  tide  was  on 
the  flow,  and  had  been  for  some  two  hours  and  a half ; there 
was  a slight  obstruction  in  the  sea  within  a few  yards  of  my 
feet : as  if  the  stump  of  a tree,  with  earth  enough  about  it  to 
keep  it  from  lying  horizontally  on  the  water,  had  slipped  a 
little  from  the  land  — and  as  I stood  upon  the  beach  and 
observed  it  dimpling  the  light  swell  that  was  coming  in,  I 
cast  a stone  over  it. 

So  orderly,  so  quiet,  so  regular  — the  rising  and  falling  of 
the  Tug-steamer,  the  Lighter,  and  the  boat  — the  turning  of 
the  windlass  — the  coming-in  of  the  tide  — that  I myself 
seemed,  to  my  own  thinking,  anything  but  new  to  the  spot. 
Yet  I had  never  seen  it  in  my  life,  a minute  before,  and  had 
traversed  two  hundred  miles  to  get  at  it.  That  very  morning 
I had  come  bowling  down,  and  struggling  up,  hill-country 
roads ; looking  back  at  snowy  summits ; meeting  courteous 
peasants  well-to-do,  driving  fat  pigs  and  cattle  to  market : 


4 THH  tJNCOMMEBCIAL  TEAVELLEB. 

noting  the  neat  and  thrifty  dwellings,  with  their  unusual 
quantity  of  clean  wdiite  linen,  drying  on  the  bushes ; having 
windy  weather  suggested  by  every  cotter’s  little  rick,  with  its 
thatch  straw-ridged  and  extra  straw-ridged  ijito  overlapping 
compartments  like  the  back  of  a rhinoceros.  Had  I not  given 
a lift  of  fourteen  miles  to  the  Coast-guardsman  (kit  and  all), 
who  was  coming  to  his  spell  of  duty  there,  and  had  we  not 
just  now  parted  company?  So  it  was;  but  the  journey 
seemed  to  glide  down  into  the  placid  sea,  with  other  chafe 
and  trouble,  and  for  the  moment  nothing  was  so  calmly  and 
monotonously  real  under  the  sunlight  as  the  gentle  rising  and 
falling  of  the  water  with  its  freight,  the  regular  turning  of 
the  windlass  aboard  the  Lighter,  and  the  slight  obstruction  so 
very  near  my  feet. 

0 reader,  haply  turning  this  page  by  the  fireside  at  Home, 
and  hearing  the  night  wind  rumble  in  the  chimney,  that  slight 
obstruction  was  the  uppermost  fragment  of  the  Wreck  of  the 
Eoyal  Charter,  Australian  trader  and  passenger  ship.  Home- 
ward bound,  that  struck  here  on  the  terrible  morning  of  the 
twenty-sixth  of  this  October,  broke  into  three  parts,  went 
down  with  her  treasure  of  at  least  five  hundred  human  lives, 
and  has  never  stirred  since  ! 

From  which  point,  or  from  which,  she  drove  ashore,  stern 
foremost ; on  which  side,  or  on  which,  she  passed  the  little 
Island  in  the  bay,  for  ages  henceforth  to  be  aground  certain 
yards  outside  her ; these  are  rendered  bootless  questions  by 
the  darkness  of  that  night  and  tlie  darkness  of  death.  Here 
she  went  down. 

Even  as  I stood  on  the  beach  with  the  words  Here  she 
went  down  ! ” in  my  ears,  a diver  in  his  grotesque  dress, 
dipped  heavily  over  the  side  of  the  boat  alongside  the  Lighter, 
and  dropped  to  the  bottom.  On  the  shore  by  the  water’s  edge, 
was  a rough  tent,  made  of  fragments  of  wreck,  where  other 
divers  and  workmen  sheltered  themselves,  and  where  they 
had  kept  Christmas  Day  with  rum  and  roast  beef,  to  the  de- 
struction of  their  frail  chimney.  Cast  up  among  the  stones 
and  bowlders  of  the  beach,  were  great  spars  of  the  lost  vessel, 
and  masses  of  iron  twisted  by  the  fury  of  the  sea  into  the 
strangest  forms.  The  timber  was  already  bleached  and  iron 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLEB. 


o 


rusted,  and  even  these  objects  did  no  violence  to  the  prevail- 
ing air  the  whole  scene  wore,  of  having  been  exactly  the 
same  for  years  and  years. 

Yet,  only  two„  short  months  had  gone,  since  a man,  living 
on  the  nearest  hill-top  overlooking  the  sea,  being  blown  out 
of  bed  at  about  daybreak  by  the  wind  that  had  begun  to  strip 
his  roof  off,  and  getting  upon  a ladder  with  his  nearest  neigh- 
bor to  construct  some  temporary  device  for  keeping  his 
house  over  his  head,  saw  from  the  ladder’s  elevation  as  he 
looked  down  by  chance  towards  the  shore,  some  dark  troubled 
object  close  in  with  the  land.  And  he  and  the  other,  descend- 
ing to  the  beach,  and  finding  the  sea  mercilessly  beating 
over  a great  broken  ship,  had  clambered  up  the  stony  ways, 
like  staircases  without  stairs,  on  which  the  wild  village  hangs 
in  little  clusters,  as  fruit  hangs  on  boughs,  and  had  given  the 
alarm.  And  so,  over  the  hill-slopes,  and  past  the  waterfall, 
and  down  the  gullies  where  the  land  drains  off  into  the 
ocean,  the  scattered  quarrymen  and  fishermen  inhabiting 
that  part  of  Wales  had  come  running  to  the  dismal  sight  — 
their  clergyman  among  them.  And  as  they  stood  in  the 
leaden  morning  stricken  with  pity,  leaning  hard  against  the 
wind,  their  breath  and  vision  often  failing  as  the  sleet  and 
spray  rushed  at  them  from  the  ever  forming  and  dissolving 
mountains  of  sea,  and  as  the  wool  which  was  a part  of  the 
vessel’s  cargo  blew  in  with  the  salt  foam  and  remained  upon 
the  land  when  the  foam  melted,  they  saw  the  ship’s  life-boat 
put  off  from  one  of  the  heaps  of  wreck ; and  first,  there  were 
three  men  in  her,  and  in  a moment  she  capsized,  and  there 
were  but  two  ; and  again,  she  was  struck  by  a vast  mass  of 
water,  and  there  was  but  one ; and  again,  she  was  thrown 
bottom  upward,  and  that  one,  with  his  arm  struck  through 
the  broken  planks  and  waving  as  if  for  the  help  that  could 
never  reach  him,  went  down  into  the  deep. 

It  was  the  clergyman  himself  from  whom  I heard  this, 
while  I stood  on  the  shore,  looking  in  his  kind  wholesome 
face  as  it  turned  to  the  spot  where  the  boat  had  been.  The 
divers  were  down  then,  and  busy.  They  were  lifting  ” 
to-day  the  gold  found  yesterday  — some  five  and  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds.  Of  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds’ 


6 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


worth  of  gold,  three  hundred  thousand  pounds’  worth,  in 
round  numbers,  was  at  that  time  recovered.  The  great  bulk 
of  the  remainder  was  surely  and  steadily  coming  up.  Some 
loss  of  sovereigns  there  would  be,  of  course ; indeed,  at  first 
sovereigns  had  drifted  in  with  the  sand,  and  been  scattered 
far  and  wide  over  the  beach,  like  sea-shells ; but  most  other 
golden  treasure  would  be  found.  As  it  was  brought  up,  it 
went  aboard  the  Tug-steamer,  where  good  account  was  taken 
of  it.  So  tremendous  had  the  force  of  the  sea  been  when  it 
broke  the  ship,  that  it  had  beaten  one  great  ingot  of  gold, 
deep  into  a strong  and  heavy  piece  of  her  solid  iron-work ; 
in  which,  also,  several  loose  sovereigns  that  the  ingot  had 
swept  in  before  it,  had  been  found,  as  firmly  embedded  as 
though  the  iron  had  been  liquid  when  they  were  forced  there. 
It  had  been  remarked  of  such  bodies  come  ashore,  too,  as  had 
been  seen  by  scientific  men,  that  they  had  been  stunned  to 
death,  and  not  suffocated.  Observation,  both  of  the  internal 
change  that  had  been  wrought  in  them,  and  of  their  external 
expression,  showed  death  to  have  been  thus  merciful  and 
easy.  The  report  was  brought,  while  I was  holding  such 
discourse  on  the  beach,  that  no  more  bodies  had  come  ashore 
since  last  night.  It  began  to  be  very  doubtful  whether  many 
more  would  be  thrown  up,  until  the  north-east  winds  of  the 
early  spring  set  in.  Moreover,  a great  number  of  the  pas- 
sengers, and  particularly  the  second-class  women-passengers, 
were  known  to  have  been  in  the  middle  of  the  ship  when  she 
parted,  and  thus  the  collapsing  wreck  would  have  fallen  u^oon 
them  after  yawning  open,  and  would  keep  them  down.  A 
diver  made  known,  even  then,  that  he  had  come  upon  the 
body  of  a man,  and  had  sought  to  release  it  from  a great 
superincumbent  weight ; but  that,  finding  he  could  not  do  so 
without  mutilating  the  remains,  he  had  left  it  where  it  was. 

It  was  the  kind  and  wholesome  face  I have  made  mention  of 
as  being  then  beside  me,  that  I had  purposed  to  myself  to  see, 
when  I left  home  for  Wales.  I had  heard  of  that  clergyman, 
as  having  buried  many  scores  of  the  shipwrecked  people  ; 
of  his  having  opened  his  house  and  heart  to  their  agonized 
friends;  of  his  having  used  a most  sweet  and  patient  diligence 
for  weeks  and  weeks,  in  the  performance  of  the  forlornest 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


7 


offices  that  Man  can  render  to  his  kind ; of  his  having  most 
tenderly  and  thoroughly  devoted  himself  to  the  dead,  and  to 
those  who  were  sorrowing  for  the  dead.  I had  said  to  myself, 

In  the  Christmas  season  of  the  year,  I should  like  to  see  that 
man ! And  he  had  swung  the  gate  of  his  little  garden  in 
coming  out  to  meet  me,  not  half  an  hour  ago. 

So  cheerful  of  spirit  and  guiltless  of  affectation,  as  true 
practical  Christianity  ever  is ! I read  more  of  the  New 
Testament  in  the  fresh  frank  face  going  up  the  village 
beside  me,  in  five  minutes,  than  I have  read  in  anathematizing 
discourses  (albeit  but  to  press  with  enormous  flourishing  of 
trumpets),  in  all  my  life.  I heard  more  of  the  Sacred  Book 
in  the  cordial  voice  that  had  nothing  to  say  about  its  owner, 
than  in  all  the  would-be  celestial  pairs  of  bellows  that  have 
ever  blown  conceit  at  me. 

We  climbed  towards  the  little  church,  at  a cheery  pace, 
among  the  loose  stones,  the  deep  mud,  the  wet  coarse  grass, 
the  outlying  water,  and  other  obstructions  from  which  frost 
and  snow  had  lately  thawed.  It  was  a mistake  (my  friend 
was  glad  to  tell  me  on  the  way)  to  suppose  that  the  peasantry 
had  shown  any  superstitious  avoidance  of  the  drowned ; on 
the  whole,  they  had  done  very  well,  and  had  assisted  readily. 
Ten  shillings  had  been  paid  for  the  bringing  of  each  body  up 
to  the  church,  but  the  way  was  steep,  and  a horse  and  cart 
(in  which  it  was  wrapped  in  a sheet)  were  necessary,  and 
three  or  four  men,  and,  all  things  considered,  it  was  not  a 
great  price.  The  people  were  none  the  richer  for  the  wreck, 
for  it  was  the  season  of  the  herring  shoal  — and  who  could 
cast  nets  for  fish,  and  find  dead  men  and  women  in  the 
draught  ? 

He  had  the  chnrch  keys  in  his  hand,  and  opened  the 
churchyard  gate,  arid  opened  the  church  door ; and  we  went 
in. 

It  is  a little  church  of  great  antiquity ; there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  some  church  has  occupied  the  spot,  these  thou- 
sand years  or  more.  The  pulpit  was  gone,  and  other  things 
usually  belonging  to  the  church  were  gone,  owing  to  its 
living  congregation  having  deserted  it  for  the  neighboring 
schoolroom,  and  yielded  it  up  to  the  dead.  The  very  Com- 


8 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


mandments  had  been  shouldered  out  of  their  places,  in  the 
bringing  in  of  the  dead ; the  black  wooden  tables  on  which 
they  were  painted,  were  askew,  and  on  the  stone  pavement 
below  them,  and  on  the  stone  pavement  all  over  the  church, 
were  the  marks  and  stains  where  the  drowned  had  been  laid 
down.  The  eye,  with  little  or  no  aid  from  the  imagination, 
could  yet  see  how  the  bodies  had  been  turned,  and  where  the 
head  had  been  and  where  the  feet.  Some  faded  traces  of  the 
wreck  of  the  Australian  ship  may  be  discernible  on  the  stone 
pavement  of  this  little  church  hundreds  of  years  hence,  when 
the  digging  for  gold  in  Australia  shall  have  long  and  long 
ceased  out  of  the  land. 

Forty-four  shipwrecked  men  and  women  lay  here  at  one 
time,  awaiting  burial.  Here,  with  Iveeping  and  wailing  in 
every  room  of  his  house,  my  companion  worked  alone  for 
hours,  solemnly  surrounded  by  eyes  that  could  not  see  him, 
and  by  lips  that  could  not  speak  to  him,  patiently  examining 
the  tattered  clothing,  cutting  off  buttons,  hair,  marks  from 
linen,  anything  that  might  lead  to  subsequent  identification, 
studying  faces,  looking  for  a scar,  a bent  finger,  a crooked  toe, 
comparing  letters  sent  to  him  with  the  ruin  about  him.  ^^My 
dearest  brother  had  bright  gray  eyes  and  a pleasant  smile,’’ 
one  sister  wrote.  0 poor  sister  ! well  for  you  to  be  far  from 
here,  and  keep  that  as  your  last  remembrance  of  him ! 

The  ladies  of  the  clergyman’s  family,  his  wife  and  two 
sisters-in-law,  came  in  among  the  bodies  often.  It  grew  to 
be  the  business  of  their  lives  to  do  so.  Any  new  arrival  of  a 
bereaved  woman  would  stimulate  their  pity  to  compare  the 
description  brought,  with  the  dead  realities.  Sometimes, 
they  would  go  back  able  to  say,  ^‘1  have  found  him,”  or 
think  she  lies  there.”  Perhaps,  the  mourner,  unable  to 
bear  the  sight  of  all  that  lay  in  the  church,  would  be  led 
in  blindfold.  Conducted  to  the  spot  with  many  compassionate 
words,  and  encouraged  to  look,  she  would  say,  with  a piercing 
cry,  This  is  my  boy ! ” and  drop  insensible  on  the  insensible 
figure. 

He  soon  observed  that  in  some  cases  of  women,  the  identifi- 
cation of  persons,  though  complete,  was  quite  at  variance  with 
the  marks  upon  the  linen ; this  led  him  to  notice  that  even 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


9 


the  marks  upon  the  linen  were  sometimes  inconsistent  with 
one  another ; and  thus  he  came  to  understand  that  they  had 
dressed  in  great  haste  and  agitation^  and  that  their  clothes 
had  become  mixed  together.  The  identification  of  men  by 
their  dress,  was  rendered  extremely  difficult,  in  consequence 
of  a large  proportion  of  them  being  dressed  alike  — in  clothes 
of  one  kind,  that  is  to  say,  supplied  by  slopsellers  and  out- 
fitters, and  not  made  by  single  garments  but  by  hundreds. 
Many  of  the  men  were  bringing  over  parrots,  and  had  receipts 
upon  them  for  the  price  of  the  birds ; others  had  bills  of 
exchange  in  their  pockets,  or  in  belts.  Some  of  these  docu- 
ments, carefully  unwrinkled  and  dried,  were  little  less  fresh  in 
appearance  that  day,  than  the  present  page  will  be  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  after  having  been  opened  three  or 
four  times. 

In  that  lonely  place,  it  had  not  been  easy  to  obtain  even 
such  common  commodities  in  towns,  as  ordinary  disinfectants. 
Pitch  had  been  burnt  in  the  church,  as  the  readiest  thing  at 
hand,  and  the  frying-pan  in  which  it  had  bubbled  over  a 
brazier  of  coals  was  still  there,  with  its  ashes.  Hard  by  the 
Communion-Table,  were  some  boots  that  had  been  taken  off 
the  drowned  and  preserved  — a gold-diggePs  boot,  cut  down 
the  leg  for  its  removal  — a trodden-down  man’s  ankle-boot 
with  a buff  cloth  top  — and  others  — soaked  and  sandy,  weedy 
salt. 

From  the  church,  we  passed  out  into  the  churchyard.  Here, 
there  lay,  at  that  time,  one  hundred  and  forty-five  bodies,  that 
had  come  ashore  from  the  wreck.  He  had  buried  them,  when 
not  identified,  in  graves  containing  four  each.  He  had  num- 
bered each  body  in  a register  describing  it,  and  had  placed  a 
corresponding  number  on  each  coffin,  and  over  each  grave. 
Identified  bodies  he  had  buried  singly,  in  private  graves,  in 
another  part  of  the  churchyard.  Several  bodies  had  been 
exhumed  from  the  graves  of  four,  as  relatives  had  come  from 
a distance  and  seen  his  register ; and,  when  recognized,  these 
have  been  reburied  in  private  graves,  so  that  the  mourners 
might  erect  separate  headstones  over  the  remains.  In  all  such 
cases  he  had  performed  the  funeral  service  a second  time,  and 
the  ladies  of  his  house  had  attended.  There  had  been  no 


10 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


offence  in  the  poor  ashes  when  they  were  brought  again  to 
the  light  of  day ; the  beneficent  Earth  had  already  absorbed 
it.  The  drowned  were  buried  in  their  clothes.  To  supply  the 
great  sudden  demand  for  coffins,  he  had  got  all  the  neighbor- 
ing people  handy  at  tools,  to  work  the  livelong  day,  and  Sun- 
day likewise.  The  coffins  were  neatly  formed;  I had  seen 
two,  waiting  for  occupants,  under  the  lee  of  the  ruined  walls 
of  a stone  hut  on  the  beach,  within  call  of  the  tent  where  the 
Christmas  Eeast  was  held.  Similarly,  one  of  the  graves  for 
four  was  lying  open  and  ready,  here,  in  the  churchyard.  So 
much  of  the  scanty  space  was  already  devoted  to  the  wrecked 
people,  that  the  villagers  had  begun  to  express  uneasy  doubts 
whether  they  themselves  could  lie  in  their  own  ground,'%ith 
their  forefathers  and  descendants,  by  and  by.  The  churchyard 
being  but  a step  from  the  clergyman’s  dwelling-house,  we 
crossed  to  the  latter ; the  white  surplice  was  hanging  up  near 
the  door  ready  to  be  put  on  at  any  time',  for  a funeral  service. 

The  cheerful  earnestness  of  this  good  Christian  minister 
was  as  consolatory,  as  the  circumstances  out  of  which  it  shone 
were  sad.  I never  have  seen  anything  more  delightfully 
genuine  than  the  calm  dismissal  by  himself  and  his  household 
of  all  they  had  undergone,  as  a simple  duty  that  was  quietly 
done  and  ended.  In  speaking  of  it,  they  spoke  of  it  with 
great  compassion  for  the  bereaved;  but  laid  no  stress  upon 
their  own  hard  share  in  those  weary  weeks,  except  as  it  had 
attached  many  people  to  them  as  friends,  and  elicited  many 
touching  expressions  of  gratitude.  This  clergyman’s  brother 
— himself  the  clergyman  of  two  adjoining  parishes,  who  had 
buried  thirty-four  of  the  bodies  in  his  own  churchyard,  and 
who  had  done  to  them  all  that  his  brother  had  done  as  to  the 
larger  number — must  be  understood  as  included  in  the  family. 
He  was  there,  with  his  neatly  arranged  papers,  and  made  no 
more  account  of  his  trouble  than  anybody  else  did.  Down  to 
yesterday’s  post  outward,  my  clergyman  alone  had  written  one 
thousand  and  seventy-five  letters  to  relatives  and  friends  of 
the  lost  people.  In  the  absence  of  self-assertion,  it  was  only 
through  my  now  and  then  delicately  putting  a question  as  the 
occasion  arose,  that  I became  informed  of  these  things.  It  was 
only  when  I had  remarked  again  and  again,  in  the  church  on 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


11 


the  awful  nature  of  the  scene  of  death  he  had  been  required 
so  closely  to  familiarize  himself  with  for  the  soothing  of  the 
living,  that  he  had  casually  said,  without  the  least  abatement 
of  his  cheerfulness,  indeed,  it  had  rendered  him  unable  for  a 
time  to  eat  or  drink  more  than  a little  coffee  now  and  then, 
and  a piece  of  bread.^’ 

In  this  noble  modesty  dn  this  beautiful  simplicity,  in  this 
serene  avoidance  of  the  least  attempt  to  improve  ’’  an  occa- 
sion which  might  be  supposed  to  have  sunk  of  its  own  weight 
into  my  heart,  I seemed  to  have  happily  come,  in  a few  steps, 
from  the  churchyard  with  its  open  grave,  which  was  the  type 
of  Death,  to  the  Christian  dwelling  side  by  side  with  it,  which 
was  the  type  of  Eesurrection.  I never  shall  think  of  the 
former,  without  the  latter.  The  two  will  always  rest  side  by 
side  in  my  memory.  If  I had  lost  any  one  dear  to  me  in  this 
unfortunate  ship,  if  I had  made  a voyage  from  Australia  to 
look  at  the  grave  in  the  churchyard,  I should  go  away,  thank- 
ful to  God  that  that  house  was  so  close  to  it,  and  that  its 
shadow  by  day  and  its  domestic  lights  by  night  fell  upon  the 
earth  in  which  its  Master  had  so  tenderly  laid  my  dear  one’s 
head. 

The  references  that  naturally  rose  out  of  our  conversation, 
to  the  descriptions  sent  down  of  shipwrecked  persons,  and  to 
the  gratitude  of  relations  and  friends,  made  me  very  anxious 
to  see  some  of  those  letters.  I was  presently  seated  before  a 
shipwreck  of  papers,  all  bordered  with  black,  and  from  them 
I made  the  following  few  extracts. 

A mother  writes  : — 

Reverend  Sir,  — Amongst  the  many  who  perished  on  your  shore 
was  numbered  my  beloved  son.  I was  only  just  recovering  from  a severe 
illness,  and  this  fearful  affliction  ha^  caused  a relapse,  so  that  I am  unable 
at  present  to  go  to  identify  the  remains  of  the  loved  and  lost.  My  darling 
son  would  have  been  sixteen  on  Christmas  Day  next.  He  was  a most 
amiable  and  obedient  child,  early  taught  the  way  of  salvation.  We  fondly 
hoped  that  as  a British  seaman  he  might  be  an  ornament  to  his  profession, 
but,  ‘Tt  is  well;’’  I feel  assured  my  dear  boy  is  now  with  the  redeemed. 
Oh,  he  did  not  wish  to  go  this  last  voyage!  On  the  fifteenth  of  October, 
I received  a letter  from  him  from  Melbourne,  date  August  twelfth;  he 
wrote  in  high  spirits,  and  in  conclusion  he  says;  Pray  for  a fair  breeze, 
mamma,  and  I’ll  not  forget  to  whistle  for  it!  and,  God  permitting,  I shall 
see  you  and  all  my  little  pets  again.  Good-by,  dear  mother — good-by. 


12 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


dearest  parents.  Good-by,  dear  brother.’’  Oh,  it  was  indeed  an  eternal 
farewell.  I do  not  apologize  for  thus  writing  you,  for  oh,  my  heart  is  so 
very  sorrowful. 

A husband  writes  : — 

My  dear  kind  Sir,  — Will  you  kindly  inform  me  whether  there  are 
any  initials  upon  the  ring  and  guard  you  have  in  possession,  found,  as 
the  Standard  says,  last  Tuesday  ? Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  when  I say 
that  I cannot  express  my  deep  gratitude  in  words  sufficiently  for  your 
kindness  to  me  on  that  fearful  and  appalling  day.  Will  you  tell  me  what 
I can  do  for  you,  and  will  you  write  me  a consoling  letter  to  prevent  my 
mind  from  going  astray  ? 

A widow  writes : — 

Left  in  such  a state  as  I am,  my  friends  and  I thought  it  best  that  my 
dear  husband  should  be  buried  where  he  lies,  and,  much  as  I should  have 
liked  to  have  had  it  otherwise,  I must  submit.  I feel,  from  all  I have 
heard  of  you,  that  you  will  see  it  done  decently  and  in  order.  Little  does 
it  signify  to  us,  when  the  soul  has  departed,  where  this  poor  body  lies, 
but  we  who  are  left  behind  would  do  all  we  can  to  show  how  we  loved 
them.  This  is  denied  me,  but  it  is  God’s  hand  that  afflicts  us,  and  I try 
to  submit.  Some  day  I may  be  able  to  visit  the  spot,  and  see  where  he 
lies,  and  erect  a simple  stone  to  his  memory.  Oh ! it  will  be  long,  long 
before  I forget  that  dreadful  night!  Is  there  such  a thing  in  the  vicinity, 
or  any  shop  in  Bangor,  to  which  I could  send  for  a small  picture  of 
Moelfra  or  Llanallgo  church,  a spot  now  sacred  to  me  ? 

Another  widow  writes  : — 

I have  received  your  letter  this  morning,  and  do  thank  you  most  kindly 
for  the  interest  you  have  taken  about  my  dear  husband,  as  well  for  the 
sentiments  yours  contains,  evincing  the  spirit  of  a Christian  who  can 
sympathize  with  those  who,  like  myself,  are  broken  down  with  grief. 

May  God  bless  and  sustain  you,  and  all  in  connection  with  you,  in  this 
great  trial.  Time  may  roll  on  and  bear  all  its  sons  away,  but  your  name 
as  a disinterested  person  will  stand  in  history,  and,  as  successive  years 
pass,  many  a widow  will  think  of  your  noble  conduct,  and  the  tears  of 
gratitude  flow  down  many  a cheek,  the  tribute  of  a thankful  heart,  when 
other  things  are  forgotten  forever. 

A father  writes  : — 

I am  at  a loss  to  find  words  to  sufficiently  express  my  gratitude  to  you 
for  your  kindness  to  my  son  Richard  upon  the  melancholy  occasion  of  his 
visit  to  his  dear  brother’s  body,  and  also  for  your  ready  attention  in  pro- 
nouncing our  beautiful  burial  service  over  my  poor  unfortunate  son’s 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


13 


remains.  God  grant  that  your  prayers  over  him  may  reach  the  Mercy 
Seat,  and  that  his  soul  may  be  received  (through  Christ’s  intercession) 
into  heaven! 

His  dear  mother  begs  me  to  convey  to  you  her  heartfelt  thanks. 

Those  who  were  received  at  the  clergyman’s  house,  write 
thus,  after  leaving  it : — 

Dear  and  never-to-be-forgotten  Friends,  — I arrived  here 
yesterday  morning  without  accident,  and  am  about  to  proceed  to  my 
home  by  railway. 

I am  overpowered  when  I think  of  you  and  your  hospitable  home.  No 
words  could  speak  language  suited  to  my  heart.  I refrain.  God  reward 
you  with  the  same  measure  you  have  meted  with ! 

I enumerate  no  names,  but  embrace  you  all. 

My  beloved  Friends,  — This  is  the  first  day  that  I have  been  able 
to  leave  my  bedroom  since  I returned,  which  will  explain  the  reason  of 
my  not  writing  sooner. 

If  I could  only  have  had  my  last  melancholy  hope  realized  in  recover- 
ing the  body  of  my  beloved  and  lamented  son,  I should  have  returned 
home  somewhat  comforted,  and  I think  I could  then  have  been  compara- 
tively resigned. 

I fear  now  there  is  but  little  prospect,  and  I mourn  as  one  without 
hope. 

The  only  consolation  to  my  distressed  mind  is  in  having  been  so  feel- 
ingly allowed  by  you  to  leave  the  matter  in  your  hands,  by  whom  I well 
know  that  everything  will  be  done  that  can  be,  according  to  arrange- 
ments made  before  I left  the  scene  of  the  awful  catastrophe,  both  as  to 
the  identification  of  my  dear  son,  and  also  his  interment. 

I feel  most  anxious  to  hear  whether  anything  fresh  has  transpired  since 
I left  you;  will  you  add  another  to  the  many  deep  obligations  I am  under 
to  you  by  writing  to  me  ? And  should  the  body  of  my  dear  and  unfortu- 
nate son  be  identified,  let  me  hear  from  you  immediately,  and  I will  come 
again. 

Words  cannot  express  the  gratitude  I feel  I owe  to  you  all  for  your 
benevolent  aid,  your  kindness,  and  your  sympathy. 

My  dearly  beloved  Friends,  — I arrived  in  safety  at  my  house 
yesterday,  and  a night’s  rest  has  restored  and  tranquillized  me.  I must 
again  repeat,  that  language  has  no  words  by  which  I can  express  my  sense 
of  obligation  to  you.  You  are  enshrined  in  my  heart  of  hearts. 

I have  seen  him!  and  can  now  realize  my  misfortune  more  than  I have 
hitherto  been  able  to  do.  Oh,  the  bitterness  of  the  cup  I drink!  But  I 
bow  submissive.  God  must  have  done  right.  I do  not  want  to  feel  less, 
but  to  acquiesce  more  simply. 


14 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


There  were  some  Jewish  passengers  on  board  the  Eoyal 
Charter,  and  the  gratitude  of  the  Jewish  people  is  feelingly 
expressed  in  the  following  letter  bearing  date  from  ^Hhe 
office  of  the  Chief  Eabbi : — 

Keverend  Sir,  — I cannot  refrain  from  expressing  to  you  my  heart- 
felt thanks  on  behalf  of  those  of  my  flock  whose  relatives  have  unfortu- 
nately been  among  those  who  perished  at  the  late  wreck  of  the  Eoyal 
Charter.  You  have,  indeed,  like  Boaz,  ‘‘not  left  off  your  kindness  to 
the  living  and  the  dead/’ 

You  have  not  alone  acted  kindly  towards  the  living  by  receiving  them 
hospitably  at  your  house,  and  energetically  assisting  then/in  theif  mourn- 
ful duty,  but  also  towards  the  dead,  by  exerting  yourself  to  have  our 
co-religionists  buried  in  our  ground,  and  according  to  our  rites.  May  our 
heavenly  Father  reward  you  for  your  acts  of  humanity  and  true  philan- 
thropy ! 

The  Old  Hebrew  congregation  of  Liverpool  thus  express 
themselves  through  their  secretary  : — 

Keverend  Sir,  — The  wardens  of  this  congregation  have  learned 
with  great  pleasure  that,  in  addition  to  those  indefatigable  exertions,  at 
the  scene  of  the  late  disaster  to  the  Eoyal  Charter,  which  have  received 
universal  recognition,  you  have  very  benevolently  employed  your  valuable 
efforts  to  assist  such  members  of  our  faith  as  have  sought  the  bodies  of 
lost  friends  to  give  them  burial  in  our  consecrated  grounds,  with  the 
observances  and  rites  prescribed  by  the  ordinances  of  our  religion. 

The  wardens  desire  me  to  take  the  earliest  available  opportunity  to 
offer  to  you,  on  behalf  of  our  community,  the  expression  of  their  warm 
acknowledgments  and  grateful  thanks,  and  their  sincere  wishes  for  your 
continued  welfare  and  prosperity. 

A Jewish  gentleman  Avrites  : — 

Eeverend  and  dear  Sir,  — I take  ’the  opportunity  of  thanking 
you  right  earnestly  for  the  promptness  you  displayed  in  answering  my 
note  with  full  particulars  concerning  my  much  lamented  brother,  and  I 
also  herein  beg  to  express  my  sincere  regard  for  the  willingness  you  dis- 
played and  for  the  facility  you  afforded  for  getting  the  remains  of  my 
poor  brother  exhumed.  It  has  been  to  us  a most  sorrowful  and  painful 
event,  but  when  we  meet  with  such  friends  as  yourself,  it  in  a measure, 
somehow  or  other,  abates  that  mental  anguish,  and  makes  the  suffering 
so  much  easier  to  be  borne.  Considering  the  circumstances  connected 
with  my  poor  brother’s  fate,  it  does,  indeed,  appear  a hard  one.  He  had 
been  away  in  all  seven  years ; he  returned  four  years  ago  to  see  his  family. 
He  was  then  engaged  to  a very  amiable  young  lady.  He  had  been  very 
successful  abroad,  and  was  now  returning  to  fulfil  his  sacred  vow;  he 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


15 


brought  all  his  property  with  him  in  gold  uninsured.  We  heard  from  him 
when  the  ship  stopped  at  Queenstown,  wdien  he  was  in  the  highest  of 
hope,  and  in  a few  short  hours  afterwards  all  w^as  washed  aw^ay. 

Mournful  in  the  deepest  degree,  but  too  sacred  for  quotation 
here,  were  the  numerous  references  to  those  miniatures  of 
women  worn  round  the  necks  of  rough  men  (and  found  there 
after  death),  those  locks  of  hair,  those  scraps  of  letters,  those 
many  many  slight  memorials  of  hidden  tenderness.  One  man 
cast  up  by  the  sea  bore  about  him,  printed  on  a perforated 
lace  card,  the  following  singular  (and  unavailing)  charm  : — 


A Blessing. 

May  the  blessing  of  God  await  thee.  May  the  sun  of  glory  shine 
around  thy  bed ; and  may  the  gates  of  plenty,  honor,  and  happiness  be 
ever  open  to  thee.  May  no  sorrow  distress  thy  days ; may  no  grief  dis- 
turb thy  nights.  May  the  pillow  of  peace  kiss  thy  cheek,  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  imagination  attend  thy  dreams;  and  when  length  of  years  makes 
thee  tired  of  earthly  joys,  and  the  curtain  of  death  gently  closes  around 
thy  last  sleep  of  human  existence,  may  the  Angel  of  God  attend  thy  bed, 
and  take  care  that  the  expiring  lamp  of  life  shall  not  receive  one  rude 
blast  to  hasten  on  its  extinction. 

A sailor  had  these  devices  on  his  right  arm.  Our  Saviour 
on  the  Cross,  the  forehead  of  the  Crucifix  and  the  vesture 
stained  red  ; on  the  lower  part  of  the  arm,  a man  and  woman ; 
on  one  side  of  the  Cross,  the  appearance  of  a half-moon,  with 
a face ; on  the  other  side,  the  sun ; on  the  top  of  the  Cross,  the 
letters  I.H.S. ; on  the  left  arm,  a man  and  woman  dancing, 
with  an  effort  to  delineate  the  female’s  dress,  under  which, 
initials.”  Another  seaman  ^^had,  on  the  lower  part  of  the  right 
arm,  the  device  of  a sailor  and  a female ; the  man  holding  the 
Union  Jack  v/ith  a streamer,  the  folds  of  which  waved  over  her 
head,  and  the  end  of  it  was  held  in  her  hand.  On  the  upper 
part  of  the  arm,  a device  of  Our  Lord  on  the  Cross,  with  stars 
surrounding  the  head  of  the  Cross,  and  one  large  star  on  the 
side  in  Indian  ink.  On  the  left  arm,,  a flag,  a true  lover’s 
knot,  a face,  and  initials.  This  tattooing  was  found  still 
plain,  below  the  discolored  outer  surface  of  a mutilated  arm, 
when  such  surface  was  carefully  scraped  away  with  a knife. 
It  is  not  improbable  that  the  perpetuation  of  this  marking 


16 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


custom  among  seamen,  may  be  referred  back  to  their  desire  to 
be  identified,  if  drowned  and  flung  ashore. 

It  was  some  time  before  I could  sever  myself  from  the 
many  interesting  papers  on  the  table,  and  then  I broke  bread  * 
and  drank  wine  with  the  kind  family  before  I left  them.  As 
I brought  the  Coast-guard  down,  so  I took  the  Postman  back 
with  his  leathern  wallet,  walking-stick,  bugle,  and  terrier-dog. 
Many  a heart-broken  letter  had  he  brought  to  the  diectory 
House  within  two  months  ; many  a benignantly  painstaking 
answer  had  he  carried  back. 

As  I rode  along,  I thought  of  the  many  people,  inhabitants 
of  this  mother  country,  who  would  make  pilgrimages  to  the 
little  churchyard  in  the  years  to  come  ; I thought  of  the  many 
people  in  Australia,  who  would  have  an  interest  in  such  a 
shipwreck,  and  would  find  their  way  here  when  they  visit. the 
Old  World  ; I thought  of  the  writers  of  all  the  wreck  of  letters 
I had  left  upon  the  table  ; and  I resolved  to  place  this  little 
record  where  it  stands.  Convocations,  Conferences,  Diocesan 
Epistles,  and  the  like,  will  do  a great  deal  for  Religion,  I dare 
say,  and  Heaven  send  they  may ! but  I doubt  if  they  will 
ever  do  their  Master’s  service  half  so  well,  in  all  the  time  they 
last,  as  the  Heavens  have  seen  it  done  in  this  bleak  spot  upon 
the  rugged  coast  of  Wales. 

Had  I lost  the  friend  of  my  life,  in  the  wreck  of  the  Royal 
Charter;  had  I lost  my  betrothed,  the  more  than  friend  of 
my  life ; had  I lost  my  maiden  daughter,  had  I lost  my  hope- 
ful boy,  had  I lost  my  little  child ; I would  kiss  the  hands 
that  worked  so  busily  and  gently  in  the  church,  and  say. 
None  better  could  have  touched  the  form,  though  it  had  lain 
at  home.”  I could  be  sure  of  it,  I could  be  thankful  for  it : I 
could  be  content  to  leave  the  grave  near  the  house  the  good 
family  pass  in  and  out  of  every  day,  undisturbed,  in  the  little 
churchyard  where  so  many  are  so  strangely  brought  together. 

Without  the  name  of  the  clergyman  to  whom — I hope, 
not  without  carrying  comfort  to  some  heart  at  some  time  — I 
have  referred,  my  reference  would  be  as  nothing.  He  is  the 
Reverend  Stephen  Roose  Hughes,  of  Llanallgo,  near  Moelfra, 
Anglesey.  His  brother  is  the  Reverend  Hugh  Robert  Hughes, 
of  Penrhos,  Alligwy, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


17 


III. 

WAPPING  WORKHOUSE. 

My  day’s  no-business  beckoning  me  to  the  East  end  of 
London,  I had  turned  my  face  to  that  point  of  the  metropoli- 
tan compass  on  leaving  Covent-garden,  and  had  got  past 
the  India  House,  thinking  in  my  idle  manner  of  Tippoo- 
Sahib  and  Charles  Lamb,  and  had  got  past  my  little  wooden 
midshipman,  after  affectionately  patting  him  on  one  leg  of 
his  knee-shorts  for  old  acquaintance’  sake,  and  had  got  past 
Aldgate  Pump,  and  had  got  past  the  Saracen’s  Head  (with  an 
ignominious  rash  of  posting  bills  disfiguring  his  swarthy 
countenance),  and  had  strolled  up  the  empty  yard  of  his 
ancient  neighbor  the  Black  or  Blue  Boar,  or  Bull,  who 
departed  this  life  I don’t  know  when,  and  whose  coaches  are 
all  gone  I don’t  know  where ; and  I had  come  out  again  into 
the  age  of  railways,  and  I had  got  past  Whitechapel  Church, 
and  was  — rather  inappropriately  for  an  Uncommercial  Trav- 
eller — in  the  Commercial  Boad.  Pleasantly  wallowing  in  the 
abundant  mud  of  that  thoroughfare,  and  greatly  enjoying 
the  huge  piles  of  building  belonging  to  the  sugar  refiners, 
the  little  masts  and  vanes  in  small  back  gardens  in  back 
streets,  the  neighboring  canals  and  docks,  the  India  vans 
lumbering  along  their  stone  tramway,  and  the  pawnbrokers’ 
shops  where  hard-up  Mates  had  pawned  so  many  sextants 
and  quadrants  that  I should  have  bought  a few  cheap  if  I 
had  the  least  notion  how  to  use  them^  I at  last  began  to  file 
off  to  the  right,  towards  Wapping. 

Hot  that  I intended  to  take  boat  at  Wapping  Old  Stairs,  or 
that  I was  going  to  look  at  the  locality,  because  I believe 
(for  I don’t)  in  the  constancy  of  the  young  woman  who  told 
her  sea-going  lover,  to  such  a beautiful  old  tune,  that  she  had 
ever  continued  the  same,  since  she  gave  him  the  ’baccer-box 


18 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


marked  with  his  name ; I am  afraid  he  usually  got  the  worst 
of  those  transactions,  and  was  frightfully  taken  in.  No,  I was 
going  to  Wapping,  because  an  Eastern  police  magistrate  had 
said  through  the  morning  papers,  that  there  was  no  classi- 
fication at  the  Wapping  workhouse  for  women,  and  that  it 
was  a disgrace  and  a shame,  and  divers  other  hard  names, 
and  because  I wished  to  see  how  the  fact  really  stood.  Eor, 
that  Eastern  police  magistrates  are  not  always  the  wisest  men 
of  the  East,  may  be  inferred  from  their  course  of  procedure 
respecting  the  fancy-dressing,  and  pantomime  posturing  at 
St.  George’s  in  that  quarter : which  is  usually,  to  discuss  the 
matter  at  issue,  in  a state  of  mind  betokening  the  weakest 
perplexity,  with  all  parties  concerned  and  unconcerned,  and 
for  a final  expedient,  to  consult  the  complainant  as  to  what 
he  thinks  ought  to  be  done  with  the  defendant,  and  take  the 
defendant’s  opinion  as  to  what  he  would  recommend  to  be 
done  with  himself. 

Long  before  I reached  Wapping,  I gave  myself  up  as 
having  lost  my  way,  and,  abandoning  myself  to  the  narrow 
streets  in  a Turkish  frame  of  mind,  relied  on  predestination 
to  bring  me  somehow  or  other  to  the  place  I wanted  if  I 
were  ever  to  get  there.  When  I had  ceased  for  an  hour  or 
so  to  take  any  trouble  about  the  matter,  I found  myself  on  a 
swing-bridge  looking  down  at  some  dark  locks  in  some  dirty 
water.  Over  against  me,  stood  a creature  remotely  in  the 
likeness  of  a young  man,  with  a puffed  sallow  face,  and  a 
figure  all  dirty  and  shiny  and  slimy,  who  may  have  been ' 
the  youngest  son  of  his  filthy  old  father,  Thames,  or  the 
drowned  man  about  whom  there  was  a placard  on  the  granite 
post  like  a large  thimble,  that  stood  between  us. 

I asked  this  apparition  what  it  called  the  place  ? Unto 
which,  it  replied,  with  a ghastly  grin  and  a sound  like 
gurgling  water  in  its  throat,  — 

Mr.  Baker’s  trap.” 

As  it  is  a point  of  great  sensitiveness  with  me  on  such 
occasions  to  be  equal  to  the  intellectual  pressure  of  the  con- 
versation, I deeply  considered  the  meaning  of  this  speech, 
while  I eyed  the  apparition  — then  engaged  in  hugging  and 
sucking  a horizontal  iron  bar  at  the  top  of  the  locks.  Inspira- 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


19 


tion  suggested  to  me  that  Mr.  Baker  was  the  acting  coroner 
of  that  neighborhood. 

A common  place  for  suicide/^  said  I,  looking  down  at  the 
locks. 

^^Sue?’’  returned  the  ghost,  with  a stare.  ^^Yes!  And 
Poll.  Likewise  Emily.  And  IN'ancy.  And  Jane;’^  he  sucked 
the  iron  between  each  name;  ^^and  all  the  bileing.  Ketches 
off  their  bonnets  or  shorls,  takes  a run,  and  headers  down 
here,  they  doos.  Always  a-headerin’  down  here,  they  is. 
Like  one  o’clock.^’ 

And  about  that  hour  of  the  morning,  I suppose  ? ’’ 

Ah ! ’’  said  the  apparition.  They  ain’t  partickler  Two 
’ull  do  for  them.  Three.  All  times  o’  night.  On’y  mind 
you  ! ” Here  the  apparition  rested  his  profile  on  the  bar,  and 
gurgled  in  a sarcastic  manner.  There  must  be  somebody 
cornin’.  They  don’t  go  a-headerin’  down  here,  wen  there 
ain’t  no  Bobby  nor  gen’ral  Cove,  fur  to  hear  the  splash.” 

According  to  my  interpretation  of  these  words,  I was  myself 
a General  Cove,  or  member  of  the  miscellaneous  public.  In 
which  modest  character  I remarked,  — 

They  are  often  taken  out,  are  they,  and  restored  ? ” 

I dunno  about  restored,”  said  the  apparition,  who,  for 
some  occult  reason,  very  much  objected  to  that  word  ; they’re 
carried  into  the  werkiss  and  put  into  a ’ot  bath,  and  brought 
round.  But  I dunno  about  restored,”  said  the  apparition ; 
blow  that ! ” — and  vanished. 

As  it  had  shown  a desire  to  become  offensive,  I was  not 
sorry  to  find  myself  alone,  especially  as  the  werkiss”  it  had 
indicated  with  a twist  of  its  matted  head,  was  close  at  hand. 
So  I left  Mr.  Baker’s  terrible  trap  (baited  with  a scum  that 
was  like  the  soapy  rinsing  of  sooty  chimneys),  and  made  bold 
to  ring  at  tlib  workhouse  gate,  where  I was  wholly  unexpected 
and  quite  unknown. 

A very  bright  and  nimble  little  matron,  with  a bunch  of 
keys  in  her  hand,  responded  to  my  request  to  see  the  House. 
I began  to  doubt  whether  the  police  magistrate  was  quite 
right  in  his  facts,  when  I noticed  her  quick  active  little  figure 
and  her  intelligent  eyes. 

The  Traveller  (the  matron  intimated)  should  see  the  worst 


20 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


first.  He  was  welcome  to  see  everything.  Such  as  it  was, 
there  it  all  was. 

This  was  the  only  preparation  for  our  entering  the  Foul 
wards. They  were  in  an  old  building  squeezed  away  in 
a corner  of  a paved  yard,  quite  detatched  from  the  more 
modern  and  spacious  main  body  of  the  workhouse.  They 
were  in  a building  most  monstrously  behind  the  time  — a 
mere  series  of  garrets  or  lofts,  with  every  inconvenient  and 
objectionable  circumstance  in  their  construction,  and  only 
accessible  by  steep  and  narrow  staircases,  infamously  ill- 
adapted  for  the  passage  up-stairs  of  the  sick  or  down-stairs  of 
the  dead. 

Abed  in  these  miserable  rooms,  here  on  bedsteads,  there 
(for  a change,  as  I understood  it)  on  the  floor,  were  women  in 
every  stage  of  distress  and  disease.  Hone  but  those  who 
have  attentively  observed  such  scenes,  can  conceive  the  ex- 
traordinary variety  of  expression  still  latent  under  the  general 
monotony  and  uniformity  of  color,  attitude,  and  condition. 
The  form  a little  coiled  up  and  turned  away,  as  though  it  had 
turned  its  back  on  this  world  forever ; the  uninterested  face 
at  once  lead-colored  and  yellow,  looking  passively  upward 
from  the  pillow;  the  haggard  mouth  a little  dropped,  the 
hand  outside  the  coverlet,  so  dull  and  indifferent,  so  light, 
and  yet  so  heavy ; these  were  on  every  pallet ; but  when  I 
stopped  beside  a bed,  and  said  ever  so  slight  a word  to  the 
figure  lying  there,  the  ghost  of  the  old  character  came  into 
the  face,  and  made  the  Foul  ward  as  various  as  the  fair  world. 
Ho  one  appeared  to  care  to  live,  but  no  one  complained ; all 
who  could  speak,  said  that  as  much  was  done  for  them  as 
could  be  done  there,  that  the  attendance  was  kind  and  patient, 
that  their  suffering  was  very  heavy,  but  they  had  nothing  to 
ask  for.  The  wretched  rooms  were  as  clean  and  sweet  as  it 
is  possible  for  such  rooms  to  be ; they  would  become  a pest- 
house  in  a single  week,  if  they  were  ill-kept. 

I aceompanied  the  brisk  matron  up  another  barbarous  stair- 
case, into  a better  kind  of  loft  devoted  to  the  idiotic  and  im- 
becile. There  was  at  least  Light  in  it,  whereas  the  windows 
in  the  former  wards  had  been  like  sides  of  schoolboys^  bird- 
cages. There  was  a strong  grating  over  the  fire  here,  and, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


21 


holding  a kind  of  state  on  either  side  of  the  hearth^  separated 
by  the  breadth  of  this  grating,  were  two  old  ladies  in  a con- 
dition of  feeble  dignity,  which  was  surely  the  very  last  and 
lowest  reduction  of  self-complacency,  to  be  found  in  this 
wonderful  humanity  of  ours.  They  were  evidently  jealous 
of  each  other,  and  passed  their  whole  time  (as  some  people 
do,  whose  fires  are  not  grated)  in  mentally  disparaging  each 
other,  and  contemptuously  w^atching  their  neighbors.  One  of 
these  parodies  on  provincial  gentlewomen  was  extremely  talk- 
ative, and  expressed  a strong  desire  to  attend  the  service  on 
Sundays,  from  which  she  represented  herself  to  have  derived 
the  greatest  interest  and  consolation  when  allowed  that  privi- 
lege. She  gossiped  so  well,  and  looked  altogether  so  cheery 
and  harmless,  that  I began  to  think  this  a case  for  the  Eastern 
magistrate,  until  I found  that  on  the  last  occasion  of  her 
attending  chapel  she  had  secreted  a small  stick,  and  had 
caused  some  confusion  in  the  responses  by  suddenly  producing 
it  and  belaboring  the  congregation. 

So,  these  two  old  ladies,  separated  by  the  breadth  of  the 
grating  — otherwise  they  would  fly  at  one  another’s  caps  — sat 
all  day  long,  suspecting  one  another,  and  contemplating  a world 
of  fits.  For,  everybody  else  in  the  room  had  fits,  except  the 
wards-woman  ; an  elderly,  able-bodied  pauperess,  with  a large 
upper  lip,  and  an  air  of  repressing  and  saving  her  strength, 
as  she  stood  with  her  hands  folded  before  her,  and  her  eyes 
slowly  rolling,  biding  her  time  for  catching  or  holding  some- 
body. This  civil  personage  (in  whom  I regretted  to  identify 
a reduced  member  of  my  honorable  friend  Mrs.  Gamp’s 
family)  said,  ^^They  has  ’em  continiwal,  sir.  They  drops 
without  no  more  notice  than  if  they  was  coach-horses  dropped 
from  the  moon,  sir.  And  when  one  drops,  another  drops,  and 
sometimes  there’ll  be  as  many  as  four  or  five  on  ’em  at  once, 
dear  me,  a-rolling  and  a-tearin’,  bless  you  ! — this  young 
woman,  now,  has  ’em  dreadful  bad.” 

She  turned  up  this  young  woman’s  face  with  her  hand  as 
she  said  it.  This  young  woman  was  seated  on  the  floor,  pon- 
dering in  the  foreground  of  the  afflicted.  There  was  nothing 
repellent  either  in  her  face  or  head.  Many,  apparently  worse, 
varieties  of  epilepsy  and  hysteria  were  about  her,  but  she  was 


22 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


said  to  be  the  worst  here.  When  I had  spoken  to  her  a little, 
she  still  sat  with  her  face  turned  up,  pondering,  and  a gleam 
of  the  midday  sun  shone  in  upon  her. 

— Whether  this  young  woman,  and  the  rest  of  these  so 
sorely  troubled,  as  they  sit  or  lie  pondering  in  their  confused 
dull  way,  ever  get  mental  glimpses  among  the  motes  in  the 
sunlight,  of  healthy  people  and  healthy  things  ? Whether 
this  young  woman,  brooding  like  this  in  the  summer  season, 
ever  thinks  that  somewhere  there  are  trees  and  flowers,  even 
mountains  and  the  great  sea?  Whether,  not  to  go  so  far, 
this  young  woman  ever  has  any  dim  revelation  of  that  young 
woman  — that  young  woman  who  is  not  here  and  never  will 
come  here  ; who  is  courted,  and  caressed,  and  loved,  and  has 
a husband,  and  bears  children,  and  lives  in  a home,  and  who 
never  knows  what  it  is  to  have  this  lashing  and  tearing  coming 
upon  her  ? And  whether  this  young  woman,  God  help  her, 
gives  herself  up  then  and  drops  like  a coach-horse  from  the 
moon  ? 

I hardly  knew  whether  the  voices  of  infant  children,  pene- 
trating into  so  hopeless  a place,  made  a sound  that  was  pleas- 
ant or  painful  to  me.  It  was  something  to  be  reminded  that 
the  weary  world  was  not  all  aweary,  and  was  ever  renewing 
itself ; but,  this  young  woman  was  a child  not  long  ago,  and  a 
child  not  long  hence  might  be  such  as  she.  Howbeit,  the 
active  step  and  eye  of  the  vigilant  matron  conducted  me  past 
the  two  provincial  gentlewomen  (whose  dignity  was  ruffled  by 
the  children),  and  into  the  adjacent  nursery. 

There  were  many  babies  here,  and  more  than  one  handsome 
young  mother.  There  were  ugly  young  mothers  also,  and 
sullen  young  mothers,  and  callous  young  mothers.  But,  the 
babies  had  not  appropriated  to  themselves  any  bad  expres- 
sion yet,  and  might  have  been,  for  anything  that  appeared  to 
the  contrary  in  their  soft  faces.  Princes  Imperial,  and  Prin- 
cesses Eoyal.  I had  the  pleasure  of  giving  a poetical  com- 
mission to  the  bakePs  man  to  make  a cake  with  all  despatch, 
and  toss  it  into  the  oven  for  one  red-headed  young  pauper 
and  myself,  and  felt  much  the  better  for  it.  Without  that 
refreshment,  I doubt  if  I should  have  been  in  a condition  for 
^Hhe  Eefractories,^^  towards  whom  my  quick  little  matron  — 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


23 


for  whose  adaptation  to  her  office  I had  by  this  time  conceived 
a genuine  respect  — drew  me  next^  and  marshalled  me  the 
way  that  I was  going. 

The  Eefractories  were  picking  oakum,  in  a small  room 
giving  on  a yard.  They  sat  in  line  on  a form,  with  their 
backs  to  a window ; before  them,  a table,  and  their  work. 
The  oldest  Eefractory  was,  say  twenty ; youngest  Eefractory, 
say  sixteen.  I have  never  yet  ascertained  in  the  course  of 
my  uncommercial  travels,  why  a Eefractory  habit  should 
affect  the  tonsils  and  uvula;  but,  I have  always  observed 
that  Eefractories  of  both  sexes  and  every  grade,  between  a 
Eagged  School  and  the  Old  Bailey,  have  one  voice,  in  which 
the  tonsils  and  uvula  gain  a diseased  ascendency. 

Five  pound  indeed ! I liainT  a-going  fur  to  pick  five 
pound,’’  said  the  Chief  of  the  Eefractories,  keeping  time  to 
herself  with  her  head  and  chin.  More  than  enough  to  pick 
what  we  picks  now,  in  sich  a place  as  this,  and  on  wot  we 
gets  here ! ” 

(This  was  in  acknowledgment  of  a delicate  intimation  that 
the  amount  of  work  was  likely  to  be  increased.  It  certainly 
was  not  heavy  then,  for  one  Eefractory  had  already  done  her 
day’s  task  — it  was  barely  two  o’clock  — and  was  sitting 
behind  it,  with  a head  exactly  matching  it.) 

A pretty  Ouse  this  is,  matron,  ain’t  it  ? ” said  Eefrac- 
tory Two,  where  a pleeseman’s  called  in,  if  a gal  says  a 
word ! ” 

And  wen  you’re  sent  to  prison  for  nothink  or  less  ! ” said 
the  Chief,  tugging  at  her  oakum  as  if  it  were  the  matron’s 
hair.  But  any  place  is  better  than  this ; that’s  one  thing, 
and  be  thankful ! ” 

A laugh  of  Eefractories  led  by  Oakum  Head  with  folded 
arms  — who  originated  nothing,  but  who  was  in  command  of 
the  skirmishers  outside  the  conversation. 

^Mf  any  place  is  better  than  this,”  said  my  brisk  guide,  in 
the  calmest  manner,  it  is  a pity  you  left  a good  place  when 
you  had  one.” 

Ho,  no,  I didn’t,  matron,”  returned  the  Chief,  with  another 
pull  at  her  oakum,  and  a very  expressive  look  at  the  enemy’s 
forehead.  Don’t  say  that,  matron,  cos  it’s  lies ! ” 


24 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


Oakum  Head  brought  up  the  skirmishers  again,  skirmished, 
and  retired. 

^^And  I warn’t  a-going,’’  exclaimed  Eefractory  Two, 
^‘though  I was  in  one  place  for  as  long  as  four  year  — I 
warn’t  a-going  fur  to  stop  in  a place  that  warn’t  fit  for  me  ~ 
there!  And. where  the  family  warn’t  ’spectable  characters  — 
there  ! And  where  I fort’nately  or  hunfort’nately,  found  that 
the  people  warn’t  what  they  pretended  to  make  theirselves 
out  to  be  — there  ! And  where  it  wasn’t  their  faults,  by 
chalks,  if  I warn’t  made  bad  and  ruinated  — Hah  1 ” 

During  this  speech.  Oakum  Head  had  again  made  a diver- 
sion with  the  skirmishers,  and  had  again  withdrawn. 

The  Uncommercial  Traveller  ventured  to  remark  that  he 
supposed  Chief  Eefractory  and  Humber  Two,  to  be  the  two 
young  women  who  had  been  taken  before  the  magistrate  ? 

Yes  ! ” said  the  Chief,  we  har  ! and  the  wonder  is,  that 
a pleeseman  ain’t  ’ad  in  now,  and  we  took  off  agen.  You 
can’t  open  your  lips  here,  without  a pleeseman.” 

Humber  Two  laughed  (very  uvularly),  and  the  skirmishers 
followed  suit. 

^H’m  sure  I’d  be  thankful,”  protested  the  Chief,  looking 
sideways  at  the  Uncommercial,  ^^if  I could  be  got  into  a 
place,  or  got  abroad.  I’m  sick  and  tired  of  this  precious 
Ouse,  I am,  with  reason.” 

So  would  be,  and  so  was,  Humber  Two.  So  would  be,  and 
so  was.  Oakum  Head.  So  would  be,  and  so  were.  Skirmishers. 

The  Uncommercial  took  the  liberty  of  hinting  that  he 
hardly  thought  it  probable  that  any  lady  or  gentleman  in 
want  of  a likely  young  domestic  of  retiring  manners,  would 
be  tempted  into  the  engagement  of  either  of  the  two  leading 
Eefractories,  on  her  own  presentation  of  herself  as  per  sample. 

It  ain’t  no  good  being  nothink  else  here,”  said  the  Chief. 

The  Uncommercial  thought  it  might  be  worth  trying. 

Oh  no  it  ain’t,”  said  the  Chief. 

^^Hot  a bit  of  good,”  said  Humber  Two. 

And  I’m  sure  I’d  be  very  thankful  to  be  got  into  a place, 
or  got  abroad,”  said  the  Chief. 

<^And  so  should  I,”  said  Humber  Two.  Truly  thankful, 
I should.” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


25 


Oakufti  Head  then  rose,  and  announced  as  an  entirely  new 
idea,  the  mention  of  which  profound  novelty  might  be  natu- 
rally expected  to  startle  her  unprepared  hearers,  that  she 
would  be  very  thankful  to  be  got  into  a place,  or  got 
abroad.  And,  as  if  she  had  then  said,  Chorus,  ladies ! ’’ 
all  the  Skirmishers  struck  up  to  the  same  purpose.  We  left 
tliem,  thereupon,  and  began  a long  walk  among  the  women 
who  were  simply  old  and  infirm ; but  whenever,  in  the  course 
of  this  same  walk,  I looked  out  of  any . high  window  that 
commanded  the  yard,  I saw  Oakum  Head  and  all  the  other 
Refractories  looking  out  at  their  low  window  for  me,  and 
never  failing  to  catch  me,  the  moment  I showed  my  head. 

In  ten  minutes  I had  ceased  to  believe  in  such  fables  of  a 
golden  time  as  youth,  the  prime  of  life,  or  a hale  old  age.  In 
ten  minutes,  all  the  lights  of  womankind  seemed  to  have 
been  blown  out,  and  nothing  in  that  way  to  be  left  this  vault 
to  brag  of,  but  the  flickering  and  expiring  snuffs. 

And  what  was  very  curious,  was,  that  these  dim  old  women 
had  one  company  notion  which  was  the  fashion  of  the  place. 
Every  old  woman  who  became  aware  of  a visitor  and  was 
not  in  bed  hobbled  over  a form  into  her  accustomed  seat,  and 
became  one  of  a line  of  dim  old  women  confronting  another 
line  of  dim  old  women  across  a narrow  table.  There  was  no 
obligation  whatever  upon  them  to  range  themselves  in  this 
way ; it  was  their  manner  of  receiving.’’  As  a rule,  they 
made  no  attempt  to  talk  to  one  another,  or  to  look  at  the 
visitor,  or  to  look  at  anything,  but  sat  silently  working  their 
mouths,  like  a sort  of  poor  old  Cows.  In  some  of  these 
wards,  it  was  good  to  see  a few  green  plants ; in  others,  an 
isolated  Refractory  acting  as  nurse,  who  did  well  enough  in 
that  capacity,  when  separated  from  her  compeers ; every  one 
of  these  wards,  day  room,  night  room,  or  both  combined,  was 
scrupulously  clean  and  fresh.  I have  seen  as  many  such 
places  as  most  travellers  in  my  line,  and  I never  saw  one 
such,  better  kept. 

Among  the  bedridden  there  was  great  patience,  great  reli- 
ance on  the  books  under  the  pillow,  great  faith  in  God.  All 
cared  for  sympathy,  but  none  much  cared  to  be  encouraged 
with  hope  of  recovery ; on  the  whole,  I should  say,  it  was 


26 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


considered  rather  a distinction  to  have  a complicatioA  of  dis- 
orders, and  to  be  in  a worse  way  than  the  rest.  From  some 
of  the  windows,  the  river  could  be  seen  with  all  its  life  and 
movement ; the  day  was  bright,  but  I came  upon  no  one  who 
was  looking  out. 

In  one  large  ward,  sitting  by  the  fire  in  arm-chairs  of  dis- 
tinction, like  the  President  and  Vice  of  the  good  company, 
were  two  old  women,  upwards  of  ninety  years  of  age.  The 
younger  of  the  two,  just  turned  ninety,  was  deaf,  but  not 
very,  and  could  easily  be  made  to  hear.  In  her  early  time 
she  had  nursed  a child,  who  was  now.  another  old  woman, 
more  infirm  than  herself,  inhabiting  the  very  same  chamber. 
She  perfectly  understood  this  when  the  matron  told  it,  and, 
with. sundry  nods  and  motions  of  her  forefinger,  pointed  out 
the  woman  in  question.  The  elder  of  this  pair,  ninety-three, 
seated  before  an  illustrated  newspaper  (but  not  reading  it), 
was  a bright-eyed  old  soul,  really  not  deaf,  wonderfully  pre- 
served, and  amazingly  conversational.  She  had  not  long  lost 
her  husband,  and  had  been  in  that  place  little  more  than  a 
year.  At  Boston,  in  the  State  of  Massachusetts,  this  poor 
creature  would  have  been  individually  addressed,  would  have 
been  tended  in  her  own  room,  and  would  have  had  her  life 
gently  assimilated  to  a comfortable  life  out  of  doors.  Would 
that  be  much  to  do  in  England  for  a woman  who  has  kept 
herself  out  of  a workhouse  more  than  ninety  rough  long 
years  ? When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven’s  command,  arose, 
with  a great  deal  of  allegorical  confusion,  from  out  the  azure 
main,  did  her  guardian  angels  positively  forbid  it  in  the 
Charter  which  has  been  so  much  besung  ? 

The  object  of  my  journey  was  accomplished  when  the 
nimble  matron  had  no  more  to  show  me.  As  I shook  hands 
with  her  at  the  gate,  I told  her  that  I thought  Justice  had 
not  used  her  very  well,  and  that  the  wise  men  of  the  East 
were  not  infallible. 

Now,  I reasoned  with  myself,  as  I made  my  journey  home 
again,  concerning  those  Foul  wards.  They  ought  not  to 
exist;  no  person  of  common  decency  and  humanity  can  see 
them  and  doubt  it.  But  what  is  this  Union  to  do  ? The 
necessary  alteration  would  cost  several  thousands  of  pounds  ; 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


27 


it  has  already  to  support  three  workhouses  ; its  inhabitants 
work  hard  for  their  bare  lives,  and  are  already  rated  for  the 
relief  of  the  Poor  to  the  utmost  extent  of  reasonable  endur- 
ance. One  poor  parish  in  this  very  Union  is  rated  to  the 
amount  of  Five  and  sixpence  in  the  pound,  at  the  very  same 
time  when  the  rich  parish  of  Saint  George’s,  Hanover  Square, 
is  rated  at  about  Sevenpence  in  the  pound,  Paddington 
at  about  Fourpence,  Saint  James’s,  Westminster,  at  about 
Tenpence  ! It  is  only  through  the  equalization  of  Poor  Eates 
that  what  is  left  undone  in  this  wise,  can  be  done.  Much 
more  is  left  undone,  or  is  ill-done,  than  I have  space  to  sug- 
gest in  these  notes  of  a single  uncommercial  journey ; but, 
the  wise  men  of  the  East,  before  they  can  reasonably  hold 
forth  about  it,  must  look  to  the  North  and  South  and  West ; 
let  them  also,  any  morning  before  taking  the  seat  of  Solomon, 
look  into  the  shops  and  dwellings  all  around  the  Temple,  and 
first  ask  themselves  How  much  more  can  these  poor  people 
— many  of  whom  keep  themselves  with  difficulty  enough  out 
of  the  workhouse  — bear  ? ” 

I had  yet  other  matter  for  reflection  as  I journeyed  home, 
inasmuch  as,  before  I altogether  departed  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Mr.  Baker’s  trap,  I had  knocked  at  the  gate  of  the 
workhouse  of  St.  George’s-in-the-East,  and  had  found  it  to  be 
an  establishment  highly  creditable  to  those  parts,  and  thor- 
oughly well  administered  by  a most  intelligent  master.  I 
remarked  in  it  an  instance  of  the  collateral  harm  that  obsti- 
nate vanity  and  folly  can  do.  This  was  the  Hall  where 
those  old  paupers,  male  and  female,  whom  I had  just  seen, 
met  for  the  Church  service,  was  it  ? ” — Yes.”  — Did 
they  sing  the  Psalms  to  any  instrument  ? ” — They  would 
like  to,  very  much ; they  would  have  an  extraordinary  inter- 
est in  doing  so.”  — And  could  none  be  got  ? ” — Well,  a 
piano  could  even  have  been  got  for  nothing,  but  these  unfor- 
tunate dissensions  ” — Ah  ! better  far  better,  my  Christian 
friend  in  the  beautiful  garment,  to  have  let  the  singing  boys 
alone,  and  left  the  multitude  to  sing  for  themselves ! You 
should  know  better  than  I,  but  I think  I have  reaj  that  they 
did  so,  once  upon  a time,  and  that  when  they  had  sung  an 
hymn,”  Some  one  (not  in  a beautiful  garment)  went  up  unto 
the  Mount  of  Olives. 


28 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLER, 


It  made  my  heart  ache  to  think  of  this  miserable  trifling 
in  the  streets  of  a city  where  every  stone  seemed  to  call  to 
me,  as  I walked  along,  “ Turn  this  way,  man,  and  see  what 
waits  to  be  done  ! So  I decoyed  myself  into  another  train 
of  thought  to  ease  my  heart.  But,  I don’t  know  that  I did  it, 
for  I was  so  full  of  paupers,  that  it  was,  after  all,  only  a 
change  to  a single  pauper,  who  took  possession  of  my  remem- 
brance instead  of  a thousand. 

I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  he  had  said,  in  a confidential 
manner,  on  another  occasion,  taking  me  aside ; but  I have 
seen  better  days.” 

I am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.” 

Sir,  I have  a complaint  to  make  against  the  master.” 

I have  no  power  here,  I assure  you.  And  if  I had  ” — 

But  allow  me,  sir,  to  mention  it,  as  between  yourself  and 
a man  who  has  seen  better  days,  sir.  The  master  and  myself 
are  both  masons,  sir,  and  I make  him  the  sign  continually ; 
but,  because  I am  in  this  unfortunate  position,  sir,  he  won’t 
give  me  the  countersign  ! ” 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER. 


29 


IV. 

TWO  VIEWS  OF  A CHEAP  THEATRE. 

As  I shut  the  door  of  my  lodging  behind  me,  and  came  out 
into  the  streets  at  six  on  a drizzling  Saturday  evening  in  the 
last  past  month  of  January,  all  that  neighborhood  of  Covent 
Garden  looked  very  desolate.  It  is  so  essentially  a neighbor- 
hood which  has  seen  better  days,  that  bad  weather  affects  it 
sooner  than  another  place  which  has  not  come  down  in  the 
world.  In  its  present  reduced  condition  it  bears  a thaw 
almost  worse  than  any  place  I know.  It  gets  so  dreadfully 
low-spirited  when  damp  breaks  forth.  Those  wonderful  houses 
about  Drury-lane  Threatre,  which  in  the  palmy  days  of  theatres 
were  prosperous  and  long-settled  places  of  business,  and  which 
now  change  hands  every  week,  but  never  change  their  charac- 
ter of  being  divided  and  subdivided  on  the  ground  floor  into 
mouldy  dens  of  shops  where  an  orange  and  half  a dozen  nuts, 
or  a pomatum  pot,  one  cake  of  fancy  soap,  and  a cigar  box, 
are  offered  for  sale  and  never  sold,  were  most  ruefully  contem- 
plated that  evening,  by  the  statue  of  Shakespeare,  with  the 
rain-drops  coursing  one  another  down  its  innocent  nose.  Those 
inscrutable  pigeon-hole  offices,  wdth  nothing  in  them  (not  so 
much  as  an  inkstand)  but  a model  of  a theatre  before  the  cur- 
tain, where,  in  the  Italian  Opera  season,  tickets  at  reduced 
prices  are  kept  on  sale  by  nomadic  gentlemen  in  smeary  hats 
too  tall  for  them,  whom  one  occasionally  seems  to  have  seen 
on  race-courses,  not  wholly  unconnected  with  strips  of  cloth 
of  various  colors  and  a rolling  ball  — those  Bedouin  establish- 
ments, deserted  by  the  tribe,  and  tenantless,  except  when 
sheltering  in  one  corner  an  irregular  row  of  ginger-beer 
bottles,  which  w^ould  have  made  one  shudder  on  such  a 
night,  but  for  its  being  plain  that  they  had  nothing  in  them, 
shrunk  from  the  shrill  cries  of  the  newsboys  at  their  Exchange 
in  the  kennel  of  Catherine  Street,  like  guilty  things  upon  a 


30 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


fearful  summons.  At  the  pipe-shop  in  Great  Kussell  Street, 
the  Death’s-head  pipes  were  like  theatrical  memento  mori, 
admonishing  beholders  of  the  decline  of  the  playhouse  as  an 
Institution.  I walked  up  Bow  Street,  disposed  to  be  angry 
with  the  shops  there,  that  were  letting  out  theatrical  secrets 
by  exhibiting  to  work-a-day  humanity  the  stuff  of  which  dia- 
dems and  robes  of  kings  are  made.  I noticed  that  some  shops 
which  had  once  been  in  the  dramatic  line,  and  had  struggled 
out  of  it,  were  not  getting  on  prosperously  — like  some  actors 
I have  known,  who  took  to  business  and  failed  to  make  it 
answer.  In  a word,  those  streets  looked  so  dull,  and,  consid- 
ered as  theatrical  streets,  so  broken  and  bankrupt,  that  the 
Found  Dead  on  the  blackboard  at  the  police  station  might 
have  announced  the  decease  of  the  Drama,  and  the  pools  of 
water  outside  the  fire-engine  maker’s  at  the  corner  of  Long 
Acre  might  have  been  occasioned  by  his  having  brought  out 
the  whole  of  his  stock  to  play  upon  its  last  smouldering  ashes. 

And  yet,  on  such  a night  in  so  degenerate  a time,  the  object 
of  my  journey  w'as  theatrical.  And  yet  within  half  an  hour 
I was  in  an  immense  theatre,  capable  of  holding  nearly  five 
thousand  people. 

What  Theatre  ? Her  Majesty’s  ? Far  better.  Koyal 
Italian  Opera  ? Far  better,  infinitely  superior  to  the  latter 
for  hearing  in ; infinitely  superior  to  both,  for  seeing  in.  To 
every  part  of  this  Theatre,  spacious  fire-proof  ways  of  ingress 
and  egress.  For  every  part  of  it,  convenient  places  of  refresh- 
ment and  retiring  rooms.  Everything  to  eat  and  drink  care- 
fully supervised  as  to  quality,  and  sold  at  an  appointed  price ; 
respectable  female  attendants  ready  for  the  commonest  women 
in  the  audience  ; a general  air  of  consideration,  decorum,  and 
supervision,  most  commendable ; an  unquestionably  humaniz- 
ing influence  in  all  the  social  arrangements  of  the  place. 

Surely  a dear  Theatre,  then  ? Because  there  were  in  London 
(not  very  long  ago)  Theatres  with  entrance  prices  up  to  half 
a guinea  a head,  whose  arrangements  were  not  half  so  civilized. 
Surely,  therefore,  a dear  Theatre  ? Not  very  dear.  A gallery 
at  threepence,  another  gallery  at  fourpence,  a pit  at  sixpence, 
boxes  and  pit-stalls  at  a shilling,  and  a few  private  boxes  at 
half  a crown. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


31 


My  uncommercial  curiosity  induced  me  to  go  into  every 
nook  of  this  great  place,  and  among  every  class  of  the  audi- 
ence assembled  in  it  — amounting  that  evening,  as  I calculated, 
to  about  two  thousand  and  odd  hundreds.  Magnificently 
lighted  by  a firmament  of  sparkling  chandeliers,  the  building 
was  ventilated  to  perfection.  My  sense  of  smell,  without 
being  particularly  delicate,  has  been  so  offended  in  some  of 
the  commoner  places  of  public  resort,  that  I have  often  been 
obliged  to  leave  them  when  I have  made  an  uncommercial 
journey  expressly  to  look  on.  The  air  of  this  Theatre  was 
fresh,  cool,  and  wholesome.  To  help  towards  this  end,  very 
sensible  precautions  had  been  used,  ingeniously  combining  the 
experience  of  hospitals  and  railway  stations.  Asphalt  pave- 
ments substituted  for  wooden  floors,  honest  bare  walls  of 
glazed  brick  and  tile — even  at  the  back  of  the  boxes  — for 
plaster  and  paper,  no  benches  stuffed,  and  no  carpeting  or 
baize  used ; a cool  material  with  a light  glazed  surface,  being 
the  covering  of  the  seats. 

These  various  contrivances  are  as  well  considered  in  the 
place  in  question  as  if  it  were  a Fever  Hospital ; the  result  is, 
that  it  is  sweet  and  healthful.  It  has  been  constructed  from 
the  ground  to  the  roof,  with  a careful  reference  to  sight  and 
sound  in  every  corner ; the  result  is,  that  its  form  is  beautiful, 
and  that  the  appearance  of  the  audience,  as  seen  from  the 
proscenium — with  every  face  in  it  commanding  the  stage,  and 
the  whole  so  admirably  raked  and  turned  to  that  centre,  that 
a hand  can  scarcely  move  in  the  great  assemblage  without  the 
movement  being  seen  from  thence  — is  highly  remarkable  in 
its  union  of  vastness  with  compactness.  The  stage  itself, 
and  all  its  appurtenances  of  machinery,  cellarage,  height,  and 
breadth,  are  on  a scale  more  like  the  Scala  at  Milan,  or  the 
San  Carlo  at  Naples,  or  the  Grand  Opera  at  Paris,  than  any 
notion  a stranger  would  be  likely  to  form  of  the  Britannia 
Theatre  at  Hoxton,  a mile  north  of  St.  Luke’s  Hospital  in 
the  Old  Street  Koad,  London.  The  Forty  Thieves  might  be 
played  here,  and  every  thief  ride  his  real  horse,  and  the  dis- 
guised captain  bring  in  his  oil  jars  on  a train  of  real  camels, 
and  nobody  be  put  out  of  the  way.  This  really  extraordinary 
place  is  the  achievement  of  one  man’s  enterprise,  and  was 


32 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


erected  on  the  ruins  of  an  inconvenient  old  building  in  less 
than  five  months,  at  a round  cost  of  five  and  twenty  thousand 
pounds.  To  dismiss  this  part  of  my  subject,  and  still  to  ren- 
der to  the  proprietor  the  credit  that  is  strictly  his  due,  I must 
add  that  his  sense  of  the  responsibility  upon  him  to  make  the 
best  of  his  audience,  and  to  do  his  best  for  them,  is  a highly 
agreeable  sign  of  these  times. 

As  the  spectators  at  this  theatre,  for  a reason  I will  presently 
show,  were  the  object  of  my  journey,  I entered  on  the  play  of 
the  night  as  one  of  the  two  thousand  and  odd  hundreds,  by 
looking  about  me  at  my  neighbors.  We  were  a motley  assem- 
blage of  people,  and  we  had  a good  many  boys  and  young  men 
among  us  ; we  had  also  many  girls  and  young  women.  To  rep- 
resent, however,  that  we  did  not  include  a very  great  number, 
and  a very  fair  proportion  of  family  groups,  would  be  to  make 
a gross  misstatement.  Such  groups  were  to  be  seen  in  all 
parts  of  the  house ; in  the  boxes  and  stalls  particularly,  they 
were  composed  of  persons  of  very  decent  appearance,  who  had 
many  children  with  them.  Among  our  dresses  there  were 
most  kinds  of  shabby  and  greasy  wear,  and  much  fustian  and 
corduroy  that  was  neither  sound  nor  fragrant.  The  caps  of  our 
young  men  were  mostly  of  a limp  character,  and  we  who  wore 
them,  slouched,  high-shouldered,  into  our  places  with  our  hands 
in  our  pockets,  and  occasionally  twisted  our  cravats  about  our 
necks  like  eels,  and  occasionally  tied  them  down  our  breasts 
like  links  of  sausages,  and  occasionally  had  a screw  in  our  hair 
over  each  cheek-bone  with  a slight  Thief  flavor  in  it.  Besides 
prowlers  and  idlers,  we  were  mechanics,  dock-laborers,  coster- 
mongers, petty  tradesmen,  sjnall  clerks,  milliners,  stay-makers, 
shoe-binders,  slop  workers,  poor  workers  in  a hundred  high- 
ways and  byways.  Many  of  us  — on  the  whole,  the  majority 
— were  not  at  all  clean,  and  not  at  all  choice  in  our  lives  or 
conversation.  But  we  had  all  come  together  in  a place  where 
our  convenience  was  well  consulted,  and  where  we  were  well 
looked  after,  to  enjoy  an  evening’s  entertainment  in  common. 
We  were  not  going  to  lose  any  part  of  what  we  had  paid  for 
through  anybody’s  caprice,  and  as  a community  we  had  a char- 
acter to  lose.  So,  we  were  closely  attentive,  and  kept  excel- 
lent order ; and  let  the  man  or  boy  who  did  otherwise  instantly 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


33 


get  out  from  this  place,  or  we  would  put  him  out  with  the 
greatest  expedition. 

We  began  at  half-past  six  with  a pantomime  — with  a pan- 
tomime so  long,  that  before  it  was  over  I felt  as  if  I had  been 
travelling  for  six  weeks  — going  to  India,  say  by  the  Overland 
Mail.  The  Spirit  of  Liberty  was  the  principal  personage  in 
the  Introduction  and  the  Four  Quarters  of  the  World  came  out 
of  the  globe,  glittering,  and  discoursed  with  the  Spirit,  who 
sang  charmingly.  We  were  delighted  to  understand  that  there 
was  no  liberty  anywhere  but  among  ourselves,  and  we  highly 
applauded  the  agreeable  fact.  In  an  allegorical  way,  which 
did  as  well  as  any  other  way,  we  and  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  got 
into  a kingdom  of  Needles  and  Pins,  and  found  them  at  war 
with  a potentate  who  called  in  to  his  aid  their  old  arch  enemy 
Kust,  and  who  would  have  got  the  better  of  them  if  the 
Spirit  of  Liberty  had  not  in  the  nick  of  time  transformed  the 
leaders  into  Clown,  Pantaloon,  Harlequin,  Columbine,  Harle- 
quina,  and  a whole  family  of  Sprites,  consisting  of  a remarka- 
bly stout  father  and  three  spineless  sons.  We  all  knew  what 
was  coming  when  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  addressed  the  king  with 
a big  face,  and  His  Majesty  backed  to  the  side-scenes  and 
began  untying  himself  behind,  with  his  big  face  all  on  one 
side.  Our  excitement  at  that  crisis  was  great,  and  our  delight 
unbounded.  After  this  era  in  our  existence,  we  went  through 
all  the  incidents  of  a pantomime ; it  was  not  by  any  means  a 
savage  pantomime,  in  the  way  of  burning  or  boiling  people,  or 
throwing  them  out  of  window,  or  cutting  them  up ; was  often 
very  droll ; was  always  liberally  got  up,  and  cleverly  presented. 
I noticed  that  the  people  who  kept  the  shops,  and  who  repre- 
sented the  passengers  in  the  thoroughfares,  and  so  forth,  had 
no  conventionality  in  them,  but  were  unusually  like  the  real 
thing  — from  which  I infer  that  you  may  take  that  audience 
in  (if  you  wish  to)  concerning  Knights  and  Ladies,  Fairies, 
Angels,  or  such  like,  but  they  are  not  to  be  done  as  to  any- 
thing in  the  streets.  I noticed,  also,  that  when  two  young 
men,  dressed  in  exact  imitation  of  the  eel-and-sausage-cravated 
portion  of  the  audience,  were  chased  by  policemen,  and,  find- 
ing themselves  in  danger  of  being  caught,  dropped  so  suddenly 
as  to  oblige  the  policeman  to  tumble  over  them,  there  was 


34 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


great  rejoicing  among  the  caps  — as  though  it  were  a delicate 
reference  to  something  they  had  heard  of  before. 

The  Pantomime  was  succeeded  by  a Melodrama.  Through- 
out the  evening  I was  pleased  to  observe  Virtue  quite  as  tri- 
umphant as  she  usually  is  out  of  doors,  and  indeed  I thought 
rather  more  so.  We  all  agreed  (for  the  time)  that  honesty 
was  the  best  policy,  and  we  were  as  hard  as  iron  upon  Vice, 
and  we  wouldnT  hear  of  Villany  getting  on  in  the  world  — 
no,  not  on  any  consideration  whatever. 

Between  the  pieces,  we  almost  all  of  us  went  out  and  re- 
freshed. Many  of  us  went  the  length  of  drinking  beer  at  the 
bar  of  the  neighboring  public-house,  some  of  us  drank  spirits, 
crowds  of  us  had  sandwiches  and  ginger-beer  at  the  refresh- 
ment-bars established  for  us  in  the  Theatre.  The  sandwich 
— as  substantial  as  was  consistent  with  portability,  and  as 
cheap  as  possible  — we  hailed  as  one  of  our  greatest  institutions. 
It  forced  its  way  among  us  at  all  stages  of  the  entertainment, 
and  we  were  always  delighted  to  see  it ; its  adaptability  to  the 
varying  moods  of  our  nature  was  surprising ; we  could  never 
weep  so  comfortably  as  when  our  tears  fell  on  our  sandwich ; 
we  could  never  laugh  so  heartily  as  when  we  choked  with  sand- 
wich ; Virtue  never  looked  so  beautiful  or  Vice  so  deformed  as 
when  we  paused,  sandwich  in  hand,  to  consider  what  would 
come  of  that  resolution  of  Wickedness  in  boots,  to  sever  Inno- 
cence in  flowered  chintz  from  Honest  Industry  in  striped 
stockings.  When  the  curtain  fell  for  the  night,  we  still  fell 
back  upon  sandwich,  to  help  us  through  the  rain  and  mire, 
and  home  to  bed. 

This,  as  I have  mentioned,  was  Saturday  night.  Being 
Saturday  night,  I had  accomplished  but  the  half  of  my  uncom- 
mercial journey;  for,  its  object  was  to  compare  the  play  on 
Saturday  evening  with  the  preaching  in  the  same  Theatre  on 
Sunday  evening. 

Therefore,  at  the  same  hour  of  half-past  six  on  the  similarly 
damp  and  muddy  Sunday  evening,  I returned  to  this  Theatre. 
I drove  up  to  the  entrance  (fearful  of  being  late,  or  I should 
have  come  on  foot),  and  found  myself  in  a large  crowd  of 
people  who,  I am  happy  to  state,  were  put  into  excellent 
spirits  by  my  arrival.  Having  nothing  to  look  at  but  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


35 


mud  and  the  closed  doors^  they  looked  at  me,  and  highly 
enjoyed  the  comic  spectacle.  My  modesty  inducing  me  to 
draw  off,  some  hundreds  of  yards,  into  a dark  corner,  they  at 
once  forgot  me,  and  applied  themselves  to  their  former  occu- 
pation of  looking  at  the  mud  and  looking  in  at  the  closed 
doors : which,  being  of  grated  ironwork,  allowed  the  lighted 
passage  within  to  be  seen.  They  were  chiefly  people  of  respect- 
able appearance,  odd  and  impulsive  as  most  crowds  are,  and 
making  a joke  of  being  there  as  most  crowds  do. 

In  the  dark  corner  I might  have  sat  a long  while,  but  that  a 
very  obliging  passer-by  informed  me  that  the  Theatre  was 
already  full,  and  that  the  people  whom  I saw  in  the  street 
were  all  shut  out  for  want  of  room.  After  that,  I lost  no  time 
in  worming  myself  into  the  building,  and  creeping  to  a place 
in  a Proscenium  box  that  had  been  kept  for  me. 

There  must  have  been  full  four  thousand  people  present. 
Carefully  estimating  the  pit  alone,  I could  bring  it  out  as 
holding  little  less  than  fourteen  hundred.  Every  part  of  the 
house  was  well  filled,  and  I had  not  found  it  easy  to  make  my 
way  along  the  back  of  the  boxes  to  where  I sat.  The  chande- 
liers in  the  ceiling  were  lighted ; there  was  no  light  on  the 
stage.;  the  orchestra  was  empty.  The  green  curtain  was  down, 
and,  packed  pretty  closely  on  chairs  on  the  small  space  of 
stage  before  it,  were  some  thirty  gentlemen,  and  two  or  three 
ladies.  In  the  centre  of  these,  in  a desk  or  pulpit  covered 
with  red  baize,  was  the  presiding  minister.  The  kind  of  ros- 
trum he  occupied  will  be  very  well  understood,  if  I liken  it  to 
a boarded-up  fireplace  turned  towards  the  audience,  with  a 
gentleman  in  a black  surtout  standing  in  the  stove  and  leaning 
forward  over  the  mantel-piece. 

A portion  of  Scripture  was  being  read  when  I went  in.  It 
was  followed  by  a discourse,  to  which  the  congregation  listened 
with  most  exemplary  attention  and  uninterrupted  silence  and 
decorum.  My  own  attention  comprehended  both  the  auditory 
and  the  speaker,  and  shall  turn  to  both  in  this  recalling  of  the 
scene,  exactly  as  it  did  at  the  time. 

^^A  very  difficult  thing,’^  I thought,  when  the  discourse 
began,  speak  appropriately  to  so  large  an  audience,  and 
to  speak  with  tact.  Without  it,  better  not  to  speak  at  all. 


36 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Infinitely  better,  to  read  the  New  Testament  well,  and  to  let 
that  speak.  In  this  congregation  there  is  indubitably  one 
pulse ; but  I doubt  if  any  power  short  of  genius  can  touch  it 
as  one,  and  make  it  answer  as  one.’^ 

I could  not  possibly  say  to  myself  as  the  discourse  proceeded, 
that  the  minister  was  a good  speaker.  I could  not  possibly 
say  to  myself  that  he  expressed  an  understanding  of  the 
general  mind  and  character  of  his  audience.  There  was  a 
supposititious  working-man  introduced  into  the  homily,  to 
make  supposititious  objections  to  our  Christian  religion  and 
be  reasoned  down,  who  was  not  only  a very  disagreeable 
person,  but  remarkably  unlike  life  — very  much  more  unlike 
it  than  anything  I had  seen  in  the  pantomime.  The  native 
independence  of  character  this  artisan  was  supposed  to  possess, 
was  represented  by  a suggestion  of  a dialect  that  I certainly 
never  heard  in  my  uncommercial  travels,  and  with  a coarse 
swing  of  voice  and  manner  anything  but  agreeable  to  his  feel- 
ings I should  conceive,  considered  in  the  light  of  a portrait, 
and  as  far  away  from  the  fact  as  a Chinese  Tartar.  There 
was  a model  pauper  introduced  in  like  manner,  who  appeared 
to  me  to  be  the  most  intolerably  arrogant  pauper  ever  relieved, 
and  to  show  himself  in  absolute  want  and  dire  necessity  of  a 
course  of  Stone  Yard.  For,  how  did  this  pauper  testify  to  his 
having  received  the  gospel  of  humility  ? A gentleman  met 
him  in  the  workhouse,  and  said  (which  I myself  really  thought 
good-natured  of  him),  ^^Ah,  John?  I am  sorry  to  see  you 
here.  I am  sorry  to  see  you  so  poor.’’  — ^^Poor,  sir!”  replied 
that  man,  drawing  himself  up,  am  the  son  of  a Prince! 
Jfy  father  is  the  King  of  Kings.  Mt/  father  is  the  Lord  of 
Lords.  Ml/  father  is  the  ruler  of  all  the  Princes  of  the 
Earth ! ” etc.  And  this  was  what  all  the  preacher’s  fellow- 
sinners  might  come  to,  if  they  would  embrace  this  blessed 
book  — which  I must  say  it  did  some  violence  to  my  own 
feelings  of  reverence,  to  see  held  out  at  arm’s  length  at  fre- 
quent intervals  and  soundingly  slapped,  like  a slow  lot  at  a 
sale.  Now,  could  I help  asking  myself  the  question,  whether 
the  mechanic  before  me,  who  must  detect  the  preacher  as 
being  wrong  about  the  visible  manner  of  himself  and  the  like 
of  himself,  and  about  such  a noisy  lip-server  as  that  pauper. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


37 


might  not,  most  unhappily  for  the  usefulness  of  the  occasion, 
doubt  that  preacher’s  being  right  about  things  not  visible  to 
human  senses  ? 

Again.  Is  it  necessary  or  advisable  to  address  such  an 
audience  continually  as  fellow-sinners  ” ? Is  it  not  enough 
to  be  fellow-creatures,  born  yesterday,  suffering  and  striving 
to-day,  dying  to-morrow  ? By  our  common  humanity,  my 
brothers  and  sisters,  by  our  common  capacities  for  pain  and 
pleasure,  by  our  common  laughter  and  our  common  tears,  by 
our  common  aspiration  to  reach  something  better  than  our- 
selves, by  our  common  tendency  to  believe  in  something  good, 
and  to  invest  whatever  we  love  or  whatever  we  lose  with  some 
qualities  that  are  superior  to  our  own  failings  and  weak- 
nesses as  we  know  them  in  our  own  poor  hearts  — by  these. 
Hear  me ! — Surely,  it  is  enough  to  be  fellow-creatures. 
Surely,  it  includes  the  other  designation,  and  some  touching 
meanings  over  and  above. 

Again.  There  was  a personage  introduced  into  the  dis- 
course (not  an  absolute  novelty,  to  the  best  of  my  remem- 
brance of  my  reading),  who  had  been  personally  known  to 
the  preacher,  and  had  been  quite  a Crichton  in  all  the  ways 
of  philosophy,  but  had  been  an  infidel.  Many  a time  had 
the  preacher  talked  with  him  on  that  subject,  and  many  a 
time  had  he  failed  to  convince  that  intelligent  man.  But  he 
fell  ill,  and  died,  and  before  he  died  he  recorded  his  con- 
version — in  words  which  the  preacher  had  taken  down,  my 
fellow-sinners,  and  would  read  to  you  from  this  piece  of 
paper.  I must  confess  that  to  me,  as  one  of  an  uninstructed 
audience,  they  did  not  appear  particularly  edifying.  I thought 
their  tone  extremely  selfish,  and  I thought  they  had  a 
spiritual  vanity  in  them  which  was  of  the  before-mentioned 
refractory  pauper’s  family. 

All  slangs  and  twangs  are  objectionable  everywhere,  but 
the  slang  and  twang  of  the  conventicle  — as  bad  in  its  way 
as  that  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  nothing  worse  can 
be  said  of  it  — should  be  studiously  avoided  under  such  cir- 
cumstances as  I describe.  The  avoidance  was  not  complete 
on  this  occasion.  ISTor  was  it  quite  agreeable  to  see  the 
preacher  addressing  his  pet  points  ” to  his  backers  on  the 


38 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


stage,  as  if  appealing  to  those  disciples  to  show  him  up,  and 
testify  to  the  multitude  that  each  of  those  points  was  a 
clincher. 

But,  in  respect  of  the  large  Christianity  of  his  general 
tone;  of  his  renunciation  of  all  priestly  authority;  of  his 
earnest  and  reiterated  assurance  to  the  people  that  the  com- 
monest among  them  could  work  out  their  own  salvation  if 
they  would,  by  simply,  lovingly,  and  dutifully  following  Our 
Saviour,  and  that  they  needed  the  mediation  of  no  erring 
man ; in  these  particulars,  this  gentleman  deserved  all  praise. 
Nothing  could  be  better  than  the  spirit,  or  the  plain  em- 
phatic words  of  his  discourse  in  these  respects.  And  it  was 
a most  significant  and  encouraging  circumstance  that  when- 
ever he  struck  that  chord,  or  whenever  he  described  anything 
which  Christ  himself  had  done,  the  array  of  faces  before  him 
was  very  much  more  earnest,  and  very  much  more  expressive 
of  emotion,  than  at  any  other  time. 

And  now,  I am  brought  to  the  fact,  that  the  lowest  part 
of  the  audience  of  the  previous  night,  zvas  not  there.  There  is 
no  doubt  about  it.  There  was  no  such  thing  in  that  building, 
that  Sunday  evening.  I have  been  told  since,  that  the  lowest 
part  of  the  audience  of  the  Victoria  Theatre  has  been 
attracted  to  its  Sunday  services.  I have  been  very  glad  to 
hear  it,  but  on  this  occasion  of  which  I write,  the  lowest 
part  of  the  usual  audience  of  the  Britannia  Theatre,  de- 
cidedly and  unquestionably  stayed  away.  When  I first  took 
my  seat  and  looked  at  the  house,  my  surprise  at  the  change 
in  its  occupants  was  as  great  as  my  disappointment.  To  the 
most  respectable  class  of  the  previous  evening,  was  added  a 
great  number  of  respectable  strangers  attracted  by  curiosity, 
and  drafts  from  the  regular  congregations  of  various  chapels. 
It  was  impossible  to  fail  in  identifying  the  character  of  these 
last,  and  they  were  very  numerous.  I came  out  in  a strong, 
slow  tide  of  them  setting  from  the  boxes.  Indeed,  while  the 
discourse  was  in  progress,  the  respectable  character  of  the 
auditory  was  so  manifest  in  their  appearance,  that  when  the 
minister  addressed  a supposititious  outcast,’^  one  really  felt  a 
little  impatient  of  it,  as  a figure  of  speech  not  justified  by 
anything  the  eye  could  discover. 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLEB. 


39 


The  time  appointed  for  the  conclusion  of  the  proceedings 
was  eight  o’clock.  The  address  having  lasted  until  full  that 
time,  and  it  being  the  custom  to  conclude  with  a hymn,  the 
preacher  intimated  in  a few  sensible  words  that  the  clock 
had  struck  the  hour,  and  that  those  who  desired  to  go  before 
the  hymn  was  sung,  could  go  now,  without  giving  offence. 
ISTo  one  stirred.  The  hymn  was  then  sung,  in  good  time  and 
tune  and  unison,  and  its  effect  was  very  striking.  A compre- 
hensive benevolent  prayer  dismissed  the  throng,  and  in  seven 
or  eight  minutes  there  was  nothing  left  in  the  Theatre  but  a 
light  cloud  of  dust. 

That  these  Sunday  meetings  in  Theatres  are  good  things, 
I do  not  doubt.  Nor  do  I doubt  that  they  will  work  lower 
and  lower  down  in  the  social  scale,  if  those  who  preside  over 
them  will  be  very  careful  on  two  heads  : firstly,  not  to  dis- 
parage the  places  in  which  they  speak,  or  the  intelligence  of 
their  hearers ; secondly,  not  to  sit  themselves  in  antagonism 
to  the  natural  inborn  desire  of  the  mass  of  maidiind  to 
recreate  themselves  and  to  be  amused. 

There  is  a third  head,  taking  precedence  of  all  others,  to 
which  my  remarks  on  the  discourse  I heard,  have  tended.  In 
the  New  Testament  there  is  the  most  beautiful  and  affecting 
history  conceivable  by  man,  and  there  are  the  terse  models 
for  all  prayer  and  for  all  preaching.  As  to  the  models, 
imitate  them,  Sunday  preachers  — else  why  are  they  there, 
consider  ? As  to  the  history,  tell  it.  Some  people  cannot 
read,  some  people  will  not  read,  many  people  (this  especially 
holds  among  the  young  and  ignorant)  find  it  hard  to  pursue 
the  verse-form  in  which  the  book  is  presented  to  them,  and 
imagine  that  those  breaks  imply  gaps  and  want  of  continuity. 
Help  them  over  that  first  stumbling-block,  by  setting  forth 
the  history  in  narrative,  with  no  fear  of  exhausting  it.  You 
will  never  preach  so  well,  you  will  never  move  them  so  pro- 
foundly, you  will  never  send  them  away  with  half  so  much  to 
think  of.  Which  is  the  better  interest : Christ’s  choice  of 
twelve  poor  men  to  help  in  those  merciful  wonders  among 
the  poor  and  rejected;  or  the  pious  bullying  of  a whole 
Union-full  of  paupers  ? What  is  your  changed  philosopher 
to  wretched  me,  peeping  in  at  the  door  out  of  the  mud  of 


40 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  travellee. 


the  streets  and  of  my  life,  when  you  have  the  widow’s  son  to 
tell  me  about,  the  ruler’s  daughter,  the  other  figure  at  the 
door  when  the  brother  of  the  two  sisters  was  dead,  and  one 
of  the  two  ran  to  the  mourner,  crying,  The  Master  is  come 
and  calleth  for  thee  ? ” — Let  the  preacher  who  will  thoroughly 
forget  himself  and  remember  no  individuality  but  one,  and 
no  eloquence  but  one,  stand  up  before  four  thousand  men 
and  women  at  the  Britannia  Theatre  any  Sunday  night, 
recounting  that  narrative  to  them  as  fellow-creatures,  and  he 
shall  see  a sight ! 


THE  UJSfCOMMEECIAL  TEAVELLEB. 


41 


V. 

POOR  MERCANTILE  JACK. 

Is  the  sweet  little  cherub  who  sits  smiling  aloft  and  keeps 
watch  on  the  life  of  poor  Jack,  commissioned  to  take  charge 
of  Mercantile  Jack,  as  well  as  Jack  of  the  national  navy  ? 
If  not,  who  is  ? What  is  the  cherub  about,  and  what  are  we 
all  about,  when  poor  Mercantile  Jack  is  having  his  brains 
slowly  knocked  out  by  pennyweights  aboard  the  brig 
Beelzebub,  or  the  bark  Bowie-knife  — when  he  looks  his 
last  at  that  infernal  craft,  with  the  first  officer’s  iron  boot-heel 
in  his  remaining  eye,  or  Avith  his  dying  body  towed  over- 
board in  the  ship’s  wake,  while  the  cruel  wounds  in  it  do 
the  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine  ” ? 

Is  it  unreasonable  to  entertain  a belief  that  if,  aboard  the 
brig  Beelzebub  or  the  bark  Bowie-knife,  the  first  officer 
did  half  the  damage  to  cotton  that  he  does  to  men,  there 
would  presently  arise  from  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  so 
vociferous  an  invocation  of  the  sweet  little  cherub  who  sits 
calculating  aloft,  keeping  watch  on  the  markets  that  pay, 
that  such  vigilant  cherub  would,  with  a winged  sword,  have 
that  gallant  officer’s  organ  of  destructiveness  out  of  his  head 
in  the  space  of  a flash  of  lightning  ? 

If  it  be  unreasonable,  then  am  I the  most  unreasonable  of 
men,  for  I believe  it  with  all  my  soul. 

This  was  my  thought  as  I walked  the  dock-quays  at 
Liverpool,  keeping  watch  on  poor  Mercantile  Jack.  Alas  for 
me  ! I have  long  outgrown  the  state  of  sweet  little  cherub ; 
but  there  I was,  and  there  Mercantile  Jack  was,  and  very 
busy  he  was,  and  very  cold  he  was ; the  snow  yet  lying  in 
the  frozen  furroAvs  of  the  land,  and  the  north-east  winds 
snipping  off  the  tops  of  the  little  waves  in  the  Mersey,  and 
rolling  them  into  hailstones  to  pelt  him  with.  Mercantile 
Jack  was  hard  at  it,  in  the  hard  weather  : as  he  mostly  is  in 


42 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


all  weathers,  poor  J ack.  He  was  girded  to  ships’  masts  and 
funnels  of  steamers,  like  a forester  to  a great  oak,  scraping 
and  painting;  he  was  lying  out  on  yards,  furling  sails  that 
tried  to  beat  him  oft ; he  was  dimly  discernible  up  in  a 
world  of  giant  cobwebs,  reefing  and  splicing ; he  was  faintly 
audible  down  in  holds,  stowing  and  unshipping  cargo ; he 
was  winding  round  and  round  at  capstans  melodious,  monoto- 
nous, and  drunk  ; he  was  of  a diabolical  aspect,  with  coaling 
for  the  Antipodes ; he  was  washing  decks  barefoot,  with  the 
breast  of  his  red  shirt  open  to  the  blast,  though  it  was  sharper 
than  the  knife  in  his  leathern  girdle ; he  was  looking  over 
bulwarks,  all  eyes  and  hair ; he  was  standing  by  at  the  shoot 
of  the  Cunard  steamer,  off  to-morrow,  as  the  stocks  in  trade 
of  several  butchers,  poulterers,  and  fishmongers,  poured  down 
into  the  ice-house ; he  was  coming  aboard  of  other  vessels, 
with  his  kit  in  a tarpaulin  bag,  attended  by  plunderers  to  the 
very  last  moment  of  his  shore-going  existence.  As  though 
his  senses,  when  released  from  the  uproar  of  the  elements, 
were  under  obligation  to  be  confused  by  other  turmoil,  there 
was  a rattling  of  wheels,  a clattering  of  hoofs,  a clashing  of 
iron,  a jolting  of  cotton  and  hides  and  casks  and  timber,  an 
incessant  deafening  disturbance  on  the  quays,  that  was  the 
very  madness  of  sound.  And  as,  in  the  midst  of  it,  he  stood 
swaying  about,  with  his  hair  blown  all  manner  of  wild  ways, 
rather  crazedly  taking  leave  of  his  plunderers,  all  the  rigging 
in  the  docks  was  shrill  in  the  wind,  and  every  little  steamer 
coming  and  going  across  the  Mersey  was  sharp  in  its  blowing 
off,  and  every  buoy  in  the  river  bobbed  spitefully  up  and 
down,  as  if  there  were  a general  taunting  chorus  of  Come 
along.  Mercantile  Jack!  Ill-lodged,  ill-fed,  ill-used,  hocussed, 
entrapped,  anticipated,  cleaned  out.  Come  along.  Poor 
Mercantile  Jack,  and  be  tempest-tossed  till  you  are 
drowned ! ” 

The  uncommercial  transaction  which  had  brought  me  and 
Jack  together,  was  this  : — I had  entered  the  Liverpool  police- 
force,  that  I might  have  a look  at  the  various  unlawful  traps 
which  are  every  night  set  for  Jack.  As  my  term  of  service 
in  that  distinguished  corps  was  short,  and  as  my  personal 
bias  in  the  capacity  of  one  of  its  members  has  ceased,  no 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


43 


suspicion  will  attach  to  my  evidence  that  it  is  an  admirable 
force.  Besides  that  it  is  composed,  without  favor,  of  the 
best  men  that  can  be  picked,  it  is  directed  by  an  unusual 
intelligence.  Its  organization  against  Fires,  I take  to  be 
much  better  than  the  metropolitan  system,  and  in  all  respects 
it  tempers  its  remarkable  vigilance  with  a still  more  remark- 
able discretion. 

Jack  had  knocked  off  work  in  the  docks  some  hours,  and  I 
had  taken,  for  purposes  of  identification,  a photograph-like- 
ness of  a thief,  in  the  portrait-room  at  our  head  police  office 
(on  the  whole,  he  seemed  rather  complimented  by  the  pro- 
ceeding), and  I had  been  on  police  parade,  and  the  small  hand 
of  the  clock  was  moving  on  to  ten,  when  I took  up  my  lantern 
to  follow  Mr.  Superintendent  to  the  traps  that  were  set  for 
Jack.  In  Mr.  Superintendent  I saw,  as  anybody  might,  a tall 
well-looking  well-set-up  man  of  a soldierly  bearing,  with  a 
cavalry  air,  a good  chest,  and  a resolute  but  not  by  any 
means  ungentle  face.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a plain  black 
walking-stick  of  hard  wood : and  whenever  and  wherever,  at 
any  after-time  of  the  night,  he  struck  it  on  the  pavement  with 
a ringing  sound,  it  instantly  produced  a whistle  out  of  the 
darkness,  and  a policeman.  To  this  remarkable  stick,  I refer 
an  air  of  mystery  and  magic  which  pervaded  the  whole  of  my 
perquisition  among  the  traps  that  were  set  for  Jack. 

We  began  by  diving  into  the  obscurest  streets  and  lanes  of 
the  port.  Suddenly  pausing  in  a flow  of  cheerful  discourse, 
before  a dead  wall,  apparently  some  ten  miles  long,  Mr. 
Superintendent  struck  upon  the  ground,  and  the  wall  opened 
and  shot  out,  with  military  salute  of  hand  to  temple,  two 
policemen  — not  in  the  least  surprised  themselves,  not  in  the 
least  surprising  Mr.  Superintendent. 

All  right,  Sharpeye  ? 

^^All  right,  sir.’’ 

All  right,  Trampfoot  ? ” 

All  right,  sir.” 

Is  Quickear  there  ? ” 

Here  am  I,  sir.” 

Come  with  us.” 

‘^Yes,  sir.” 


44 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


So  Sharpeye  went  before,  and  Mr.  Superintendent  and  I 
went  next,  and  Trampfoot  and  Quickear  marched  as  rear- 
guard. Sharpeye,  I soon  had  occasion  to  remark,  had  a skilful 
and  quite  professional  way  of  opening  doors  — touched  latches 
delicately,  as  if  they  were  keys  of  musical  instruments  — 
opened  every  door  he  touched,  as  if  he  were  perfectly  con- 
fident that  there  was  stolen  property  behind  it  — instantly 
insinuated  himself,  to  prevent  its  being  shut. 

Sharpeye  opened  several  doors  of  traps  that  were  set  for 
Jack,  but  Jack  did  not  happen  to  be  in  any  of  them.  They 
were  all  such  miserable  places  that  really,  Jack,  if  I were 
you,  I would  give  them  a wider  birth.  In  every  trap,  some- 
body was  sitting  over  a fire,  waiting  for  Jack.  Now,  it  was 
a crouching  old  woman,  like  the  picture  of  the  Norwood 
Gypsy  in  the  old  sixpenny  dream-books ; now,  it  was  a crimp 
of  the  male  sex,  in  a checked  shirt  and  without  a coat,  reading 
a newspaper ; now,  it  was  a man  crimp  and  a woman  crimp, 
who  always  introduced  themselves  as  united  in  holy  matri- 
mony; now,  it  was  Jack’s  delight,  his  (un)  lovely  Nan ; but 
they  were  all  waiting  for  Jack,  and  were  all  frightfully  dis- 
appointed to  see  us. 

Who  have  you  got  up-stairs  here  ? ” says  Sharpeye, 
generally.  (In  the  Move-on  tone.) 

Nobody,  surr ; sure  not  a blessed  sowl ! ” (Irish  feminine 
reply.) 

What  do  you  mean  by  nobody  ? Didn’t  I hear  a woman’s 
step  go  up-stairs  when  my  hand  was  on  the  latch  ? ” 

Ah  ! sure  thin  you’re  right,  surr,  I forgot  her.  ’Tis  on’y 
Betsy  White,  surr.  Ah ! you  know  Betsy,  surr.  Come  down, 
Betsy  darlin’,  and  say  the  gintlemin.” 

Generally,  Betsy  looks  over  the  banisters  (the  steep  stair- 
case is  in  the  room)  with  a forcible  expression  in  her  protest- 
ing face,  of  an  intention  to  compensate  herself  for  the  present 
trial  by  grinding  Jack  finer  than  usual  when  he  does  come. 
Generally,  Sharpeye  turns  to  Mr.  Superintendent,  and  says, 
as  if  the  subjects  of  his  remarks  were  wax- work,  — 

One  of  the  worst,  sir,  this  house  is.  This  woman  has  been 
indicted  three  times.  This  man’s  a regular  bad  one  likewise. 
His  real  name  is  Pegg.  Gives  himself  out  as  Waterhouse.” 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLEB. 


45 


Never  had  sich  a name  as  Pegg  near  me  back,  thin,  since 
I was  in  this  house,  bee  the  good  Lard ! ’’  says  the  woman. 

Generally,  the  man  says  nothing  at  all,  but  becomes  ex- 
ceedingly round-shouldered,  and  pretends  to  read  his  paper 
with  rapt  attention.  Generally,  Sharpeye  directs  our  observa- 
tion with  a look,  to  the  prints  and  pictures  that  are  invariably 
numerous  on  the  walls.  Always,  Trampfoot  and  Quickear 
are  taking  notice  on  the  doorstep.  In  default  of  Sharpeye 
being  acquainted  with  the  exact  individuality  of  any  gentle- 
man encountered,  one  of  these  two  is  sure  to  proclaim  from 
the  outer  air,  like  a gruff  spectre,  that  Jackson  is  not  Jackson, 
but  knows  himself  to  be  Fogle ; or  that  Canlon  is  Walker’s 
brother,  against  whom  there  was  not  sufficient  evidence  ; or 
that  the  man  who  says  he  never  was  at  sea  since  he  was  a 
boy,  came  ashore  from  a voyage  last  Thursday,  or  sails  to- 
morrow morning.  And  that  is  a bad  class  of  man,  you 
see,”  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  when  he  got  out  into  the 
dark  again,  and  very  difficult  to  deal  with,  who,  when  he 
has  made  this  place  too  hot  to  hold  him,  enters  himself  for  a 
voyage  as  steward  or  cook,  and  is  out  of  knowledge  for  months, 
and  then  turns  up  again  worse  than  ever.” 

When  we  had  gone  into  many  such  houses,  and  had  come 
out  (always  leaving  everybody  relapsing  into  waiting  for 
Jack),  we  started  off  to  a singing-house  where  Jack  was 
expected  to  muster  strong. 

The  vocalization  was  taking  place  in  a long  low  room 
up-stairs ; at  one  end,  an  orchestra  of  two  performers,  and  a 
small  platform ; across  the  room,  a series  of  open  pews  for 
Jack,  with  an  aisle  down  the  middle ; at  the  other  end  a 
larger  pew  than  the  rest,  entitled  Snug,  and  reserved  for 
mates  and  similar  good  company.  About  the  room,  some 
amazing  coffee-colored  pictures  varnished  an  inch  deep,  and 
some  stuffed  creatures  in  cases ; dotted  among  the  audience, 
in  Snug  and  out  of  Snug,  the  Professionals  ; ” among  them, 
the  celebrated  comic  favorite,  Mr.  Banjo  Bones,  looking  very 
hideous  with  his  blackened  face  and  limp  sugar-loaf  hat; 
beside  him,  sipping  rum  and  water,  Mrs.  Banjo  Bones,  in  her 
natural  colors  — a little  heightened. 

It  was  a Friday  night,  and  Friday  night  was  considered 


46 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


not  a good  night  for  Jack.  At  any  rate,  Jack  did  not  show 
in  very  great  force  even  here,  though  the  house  was  one  to 
which  he  much  resorts,  and  where  a good  deal  of  money  is 
taken.  There  was  British  Jack,  a little  maudlin  and  sleepy, 
lolling  over  his  empty  glass,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  read 
his  fortune  at  the  bottom  ; there  was  loafing  Jack  of  the  Stars 
and  Stripes,  rather  an  unpromising  customer,  with  his  long 
nose,  lank  cheek,  high  cheek-bones,  and  nothing  soft  about 
him  but  his  cabbage-leaf  hat;  there  was  Spanish  Jack,  with 
curls  of  black  hair,  rings  in  his  ears,  and  a knife  not  far 
from  his  hand,  if  you  got  into  trouble  with  him ; there  were 
Maltese  Jack,  and  Jack  of  Sweden,  and  Jack  the  Finn,  loom- 
ing through  the  smoke  of  their  pipes,  and  turning  faces  that 
looked  as  if  they  were  carved  out  of  dark  wood,  towards  the 
young  lady  dancing  the  hornpipe ; who  found  the  platform  so 
exceedingly  small  for  it,  that  I had  a nervous  expectation 
of  seeing  her,  in  the  backwards  steps,  disappear  through  the 
window.  Still,  if  all  hands  had  been  got  together,  they  would 
not  have  more  than  half  filled  the  room.  Observe,  however, 
said  Mr.  Licensed  Victualler,  the  host,  that  it  was  Friday 
night,  and,  besides,  it  was  getting  on  for  twelve,  and  Jack 
had  gone  aboard.  A sharp  and  watchful  man,  Mr.  Licensed 
Victualler,  the  host,  with  tight  lips  and  a complete  edition 
of  Cocker’s  arithmetic  in  each  eye.  Attended  to  his  business 
himself,  he  said.  Always  on  the  spot.  Vt^hen  he  heard  of 
talent,  trusted  nobody’s  account  of  it,  but  went  off  by  rail  to 
see  it.  If  true  talent,  engaged  it.  Pounds  a week  for  talent 
— four  pound  — five  pound.  Banjo  Bones  was  undoubted 
talent.  Hear  this  instrument  that  was  going  to  play  — it  was 
real  talent ! In  truth  it  was  very  good ; a kind  of  piano- 
accordion,  played  by  a young  girl  of  a delicate  prettiness  of 
face,  figure,  and  dress,  that  made  the  audience  look  coarser. 
She  sang  to  the  instrument,  too ; first,  a song  about  village 
bells,  and  how  they  chimed ; then  a song  about  how  I went  to 
sea;  winding  up  with  an  imitation  of  the  bagpipes,  which 
Mercantile  Jack  seemed  to  understand  much  the  best.  A good 
girl,  said  Mr.  Licensed  Victualler.  Kept  herself  select.  Sat 
in  Snug,  not  listening  to  the  blandishments  of  Mates.  Lived 
with  mother.  Father  dead.  Once  a merchant  well  to  do,  but 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


47 


over-speculated  himself.  On  delicate  inquiry  as  to  salary 
paid  for  item  of  talent  under  consideration,  Mr.  Victualler’s 
pounds  dropped  suddenly  to  shillings  — still  it  was  a very 
comfortable  thing  for  a young  person  like  that,  you  know ; 
she  only  went  on  six  times  a night,  and  was  only  required  to 
be  there  from  six  at  night  to  twelve.  What  was  more  con- 
clusive was,  Mr.  Victualler’s  assurance  that  he  never  allowed 
any  language,  and  never  suffered  any  disturbance.”  Sharpeye 
confirmed  the  statement,  and  the  order  that  prevailed  was  the 
best  proof  of  it  that  could  have  been  cited.  So,  I came  to 
the  conclusion  that  poor  Mercantile  Jack  might  do  (as  I am 
afraid  he  does)  much  worse  than  trust  himself  to  Mr.  Vic- 
tualler, and  pass  his  evenings  here. 

But  we  had  not  yet  looked,  Mr.  Superintendent  — said 
Trampfoot,  receiving  us  in  the  street  again  with  military 
salute  — for  Dark  Jack.  True,  Trampfoot.  Eing  the  wonder- 
ful stick,  rub  the  wonderful  lantern,  and  cause  the  spirits  of 
the  stick  and  lantern  to  convey  us  to  the  Darkies. 

There  was  no  disappointment  in  the  matter  of  Dark  Jack ; 
he  was  producible.  The  Genii  set  us  down  in  the  little  first 
floor  of  a little  public-house,  and  there,  in  a stiflingly  close 
atmosphere,  were  Dark  Jack,  and  Dark  Jack’s  delight,  his 
white  unlovely  Nan,  sitting  against  the  wall  all  round  the 
room.  More  than  that:  Dark  Jack’s  delight  was  the  least 
unlovely  Nan,  both  morally  and  physically,  that  I saw  that 
night. 

As  a Addle  and  tambourine  band  were  sitting  among  the 
company,  Quickear  suggested  why  not  strike  up?  ^^Ah, 
la’ads!”  said  a negro  sitting  by  the  door,  ^^gib  the  jebblem 
a darnse.  Tak’  yah  pardlers,  jebblem,  for  ’um  quAD-rill.” 

This  was  the  landlord,  in  a Greek  cap,  and  a dress  half 
Greek  and  half  English.  As  master  of  the  ceremonies,  he 
called  all  the  figures,  and  occasionally  addressed  himself 
parenthetically  — after  this  manner.  When  he  was  very  loud, 
I use  capitals. 

Now  den!  Hoy!  One.  Eight  and  left.  (Put  a steam 
on,  gib  ^um  powder.)  LA-dies’  chail.  BAL-loon  say.  Lemom 
ade ! Two.  Ao-warnse  and  go  back  (gib  ’ell  a breakdown, 
shake  it  out  o’  yorselbs,  keep  a-movil).  SwiNG-corners,  Bal- 


48 


THE  ITNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER, 


loon  say,  and  Lemonade  ! (Hoy  !)  Three.  Gent  come  forward 
with  a lady  and  go  back,  hoppersite  come  forward  and  do  what 
yer  can.  (Aeiohoy ! ) BAL-loon  say,  and  leetle  lemonade. 
(Dat  hair  nigger  by  ’um  fireplace  ’hind  a’  time,  shake  it  out 
o’  yerselbs,  gib  ’ell  a breakdown.)  Now  den  ! Hoy  ! Four  ! 
Lemonade.  BAL-loon  say,  and  swing.  Four  ladies  meets  in 
’um  middle,  four  gents  goes  round  ’um  ladies,  four  gents 
passes  out  under  um’  ladies’  arms,  swing  — and  Lemonade  till 
’a  moosic  can’t  play  no  more  ! (Hoy,  Hoy  !)  ” 

The  male  dancers  were  all  blacks,  and  one  was  an  unusually 
powerful  man  of  six  feet  three  or  four.  The  sound  of  their 
flat  feet  on  the  floor  was  as  unlike  the  sound  of  white  feet  as 
their  faces  were  unlike  white  faces.  They  toed  and  heeled, 
shuffled,  double-shuffled,  double-double-shuffled,  covered  the 
buckle,  and  beat  the  time  out,  rarely,  dancing  with  a great 
show  of  teeth,  and  with  a childish  good-humored  enjoyment 
that  was  very  prepossessing.  They  generally  kept  together, 
these  poor  fellows,  said  Mr.  Superintendent,  because  they 
were  at  a disadvantage  singly,  and  liable  to  slights  in  the 
neighboring  streets.  But,  if  I were  Light  Jack,  I should 
be  very  slow  to  interfere  oppressively  with  Dark  Jack,  for, 
whenever  I have  had  to  do  with  him  I have  found  him  a 
simple  and  gentle  fellow.  Bearing  this  in  mind,  I asked  his 
friendly  permission  to  leave  him  restoration  of  beer,  in  wish- 
ing him  good-night,  and  thus  it  fell  out  that  the  last  words  I 
heard  him  say  as  I blundered  down  the  worn  stairs,  were, 
Jebblem’s  elth  ! Ladies  drinks  fust ! ” 

The  night  was  now  well  on  into  the  morning,  but,  for  miles 
and  hours  we  explored  a strange  world,  where  nobody  ever 
goes  to  bed,  but  everybody  is  eternally  sitting  up,  waiting 
for  Jack.  This  exploration  was  among  a labyrinth  of  dismal 
courts  and  blind  alleys,  called  Entries,  kept  in  wonderful 
order  by  the  police,  and  in  much  better  order  than  by  the 
corporation : the  want  of  gaslight  in  the  most  dangerous  and 
infamous  of  these  places  being  quite  unworthy  of  so  spirited 
a town.  I need  describe  but  two  or  three  of  the  houses  in 
which  Jack  was  waited  for  as  specimens  of  the  rest.  Many 
we  attained  by  noisome  passages  so  profoundly  dark  that  we 
felt  our  way  with  our  hands.  Not  one  of  the  whole  number 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TUAVELLER. 


49 


we  visited,  was  without  its  show  of  prints  and  ornamental 
crockery ; the  quantity  of  the  latter  set  forth  on  little  shelves 
and  in  little  cases,  in  otherwise  wretched  rooms,  indicating 
that  Mercantile  Jack  must  have  an  extraordinary  fondness 
for  crockery,  to  necessitate  so  much  of  that  bait  in  his  traps. 

Among  such  garniture,  in  one  front  parlor  in  the  dead  of 
the  night,  four  women  were  sitting  by  a fire.  One  of  them 
had  a male  child  in  her  arms.  On  a stool  among  them  was 
a swarthy  youth  with  a guitar,  who  had  evidently  stopped 
playing  when  our  footsteps  were  heard. 

“Well ! how  do  you  do  ? says  Mr.  Superintendent,  looking 
about  him. 

“Pretty  well,  sir,  and  hope  you  gentlemen  are  going  to 
treat  us  ladies,  now  you  have  come  to  see  us.^’ 

“ Order  there  ! says  Sharpeye. 

“ None  of  that ! ’’  says  Quickear. 

Trampfoot  outside,  is  heard  to  confide  to  himself,  “ Meggis- 
son’s  lot  this  is.  And  a bad  ’un  ! ’’ 

“Well ! ’’  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  swarthy  youth,  “ and  who’s  this  ? 

“Antonio,  sir.” 

“ And  what  does  he  do  here  ? ” 

“Come  to  give  us  a bit  of  music.  No  harm  in  that,  I 
suppose  ? ” 

“ A young  foreign  sailor  ? ” 

“Yes.  He’s  a Spaniard.  You’re  a Spaniard,  ain’t  you, 
Antonio  ? ” 

“ Me  Spanish.” 

“ And  he  don’t  know  a word  you  say,  not  he ; not  if  you 
was  to  talk  to  him  till  doomsday.”  (Triumphantly,  as  if  it 
redounded  to  the  credit  of  the  house.) 

“ Will  he  play  something  ? ” 

“Oh,  yes,  if  you  like.  Play  something,  Antonio.  You 
ain’t  ashamed  to  play  something ; are  you  ? ” 

The  cracked  guitar  raises  the  feeblest  ghost  of  a tune,  and 
three  of  the  women  keep  time  to  it  with  their  heads,  and  the 
fourth  with  the  child.  If  Antonio  has  brought  any  money  in 
with  him,  I am  afraid  he  will  never  take  it  out,  and  it  even 
strikes  me  that  his  jacket  and  guitar  may  be  in  a bad  way. 


60 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TEAVELLER. 


But,  the  look  of  the  young  man  and  the  tinkling  of  the 
instrument  so  change  the  place  in  a moment  to  a leaf  out  of 
Don  Quixote,  that  I wonder  where  his  mule  is  stabled,  until 
he  leaves  off. 

I am  bound  to  acknowledge  (as  it  tends  rather  to  my  un- 
commercial confusion),  that  I occasioned  a difficulty  in  this 
establishment,  by  having  taken  the  child  in  my  arms.  For, 
on  my  offering  to  restore  it  to  a ferocious  joker  not  unstim- 
ulated by  rum,  who  claimed  to  be  its  mother,  that  unnatural 
parent  put  her  hands  behind  her,  and  declined  to  accept  it ; 
backing  into  the  fireplace,  and  very  shrilly  declaring,  regard- 
less of  remonstrance  from  her  friends,  that  she  knowed  it 
to  be  Law,  that  whoever  took  a child  from  its  mother  of  his 
own  will,  was  bound  to  stick  to  it.  The  uncommercial  sense 
of  being  in  a rather  ridiculous  position  with  the  poor  little 
child  beginning  to  be  frightened,  was  relieved  by  my  worthy 
friend  and  fellow-constable,  Trampfoot ; who,  laying  hands 
on  the  article  as  if  it  were  a Bottle,  passed  it  on  to  the  nearest 
woman,  and  bade  her  take  hold  of  that.’’  As  we  came  out 
the  Bottle  was  passed  to  the  ferocious  joker,  and  they  all  sat 
down  as  before,  including  Antonio  and  the  guitar.  It  was 
clear  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a nightcap  to  this  baby’s 
head,  and  that  even  he  never  went  to  bed,  but  was  always 
kept  up  — and  would  grow  up,  kept  up  — waiting  for  Jack. 

Later  still  in  the  night,  we  came  (by  the  court  where  the 
man  was  murdered,”  and  by  the  other  court  across  the  street, 
into  which  his  body  was  dragged)  to  another  parlor  in  another 
Entry,  where  several  people  were  sitting  round  a fire  in  just 
the  same  way.  It  was  a dirty  and  offensive  place,  with  some 
ragged  clothes  drying  in  it ; but  there  was  a high  shelf  over 
the  entrance-door  (to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  marauding  hands, 
possibly)  with  two  large  white  loaves  on  it,  and  a great  piece 
of  Cheshire  cheese. 

Well ! ” says  Mr.  Superintendent,  with  a comprehensive 
look  all  round.  How  do  you  do  ? ” 

^^Not  much  to  boast  of,  sir.”  From  the  courtesying  woman 
of  the  house.  That  is  my  good  man,  sir.” 

You  are  not  registered  as  a common  Lodging  House  ?” 

No,  sir.” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


51 


Sharpeye  (in  the  move-on  tone)  puts  in  the  pertinent  in- 
quiry, Then  why  ainT  you  ? 

AinT  got  no  one  here,  Mr.  Sharpeye,’’  rejoin  the  woman 
and  my  good  man  together,  but  our  own  family.” 

How  many  are  you  in  family  ? ” 

The  woman  takes  time  to  count,  under  the  pretence  of 
coughing,  and  adds,  as  one  scant  of  breath,  Seven,  sir.” 

But  she  has  missed  one,  so  Sharpeye,  who  knows  all  about 
it,  says,  — 

Here’s  a young  man  here  makes  eight,  who  ain’t  of  your 
family  ? ” 

No,  Mr.  Sharpeye,  he’s  a weekly  lodger.” 

What  does  he  do  for  a living  ? ” 

The  young  man  here,  takes  the  reply  upon  himself,  and 
shortly  answers,  Ain’t  got  nothing  to  do.” 

The  young  man  here,  is  modestly  brooding  behind  a damp 
apron  pendent  from  a clothes-line.  As  I glance  at  him  I 
become  — but  I don’t  know  why  — vaguely  reminded  of  Wool- 
wich, Chatham,  Portsmouth,  and  Hover.  When  we  get  out, 
my  respected  fellow-constable  Sharpeye,  addressing  Mr. 
Superintendent,  says,  — 

‘Won  noticed  that  young  man,  sir,  in  at  Darby’s  ?” 

Yes.  What  is  he  ? ” 

Deserter,  sir.” 

Mr.  Sharpeye  further  intimates  that  when  we  have  done 
with  his  services,  he  will  step  back  and  take  that  young  man. 
Which  in  course  of  time  he  does  ; feeling  at  perfect  ease  about 
finding  him,  and  knowing  for  a moral  certainty  that  nobody  in 
that  region  will  be  gone  to  bed. 

Later  still  in  the  night,  we  came  to  another  parlor  up  a 
step  or  two  from  the  street,  which  was  very  cleanly,  neatly, 
even  tastefully,  kept,  and  in  which,  set  forth  on  a draped 
chest  of  drawers  masking  the  staircase,  was  such  a profusion 
of  ornamental  crockery,  that  it  would  have  furnished  forth  a 
handsome  sale-booth  at  a fair.  It  backed  up  a stout  old 
lady  — Hogarth  drew  her  exact  likeness  more  than  once 
— and  a boy  who  was  carefully  writing  a copy  in  a copy- 
book. 

^^Well,  ma’am,  how  do  you  do  ?” 


52 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Sweetly,  she  can  assure  the  dear  gentleman,  sweetly. 
Charmingly,  charmingly.  And  overjoyed  to  see  us  ! 

Why,  this  is  a strange  time  for  this  boy  to  be  writing  his 
copy.  In  the  middle  of  the  night ! 

So  it  is,  dear  gentlemen.  Heaven  bless  your  welcome  faces 
and  send  ye  prosperous,  but  he  has  been  to  the  Play  with  a 
young  friend  for  his  diversion,  and  he  combinates  his  improve- 
ment with  entertainment,  by  doing  his  school-writing  after- 
wards, God  be  good  to  ye  ! 

The  copy  admonished  human  nature  to  subjugate  the  fire 
of  every  fierce  desire.  One  might  have  thought  it  recom- 
mended stirring  the  fire,  the  old  lady  so  approved  it.  There 
she  sat,  rosily  beaming  at  the  copy-book  and  the  boy,  and 
invoking  showers  of  blessings  on  our  heads,  when  we  left  her 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  waiting  for  Jack. 

Later  still  in  the  night,  we  came  to  a nauseous  room  with  an 
earth  floor,  into  which  the  refuse  scum  of  an  alley  trickled. 
The  stench  of  this  habitation  was  abominable ; the  seeming 
poverty  of  it,  diseased  and  dire.  Yet,  here  again,  was  visitor 
or  lodger  — a man  sitting  before  the  fire,  like  the  rest  of  them 
elsewhere,  and  apparently  not  distasteful  to  the  mistress’s 
niece,  who  was  also  before  the  fire.  The  mistress  herself  had 
the  misfortune  of  being  in  jail. 

Three  weird  old  women  of  transcendent  ghastliness,  were 
at  needlework  at  a table  in  this  room.  Says  Trampfoot  to 
First  Witch,  What  are  you  making  ? ” Says  she,  ^^Money- 
bags.” 

What  are  you  making  ? ” retorts  Trampfoot,  a little  off 
his  balance. 

^^Bags  to  hold  your  money,”  says  the  witch,  shaking  her 
head,  and  setting  her  teeth  ; You  as  has  got  it.” 

She  holds  up  a common  cash-bag,  and  on  the  table  is  a heap 
of  such  bags.  Witch  Two  laughs  at  us.  Witch  Three  scowls 
at  us.  Witch  sisterhood  all,  stitch,  stitch.  First  Witch  has 
a red  circle  round  each  eye.  I fancy  it  like  the  beginning  of 
the  development  of  a perverted  diabolical  halo,  and  that  when 
it  spreads  all  round  her  head,  she  will  die  in  the  odor  of 
devilry. 

Trampfoot  wishes  to  be  informed  what  First  Witch  has  got 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


53 


behind  the  table,  down  by  the  side  of  her,  there.  Witches 
Two  and  Three  croak  angrily,  Show  him  the  child  ! 

She  drags  out  a skinny  little  arm  from  a brown  dust-heap 
on  the  ground.  Adjured  not  to  disturb  the  child,  she  lets  it 
drop  again.  Thus  we  find  at  last  that  there  is  one  child  in 
the  world  of  Entries  who  goes  to  bed  — if  this  be  bed. 

Mr.  Superintendent  asks  how  long  are  they  going  to  work 
at  those  bags  ? 

How  long  ? First  Witch  repeats.  Going  to  have  supper 
presently.  See  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  the  plates. 

Late  ? Ay  ! But  we  has  to  ^arn  our  supper  afore  we 
eats  it ! Both  the  other  witches  repeat  this  after  First 
Witch,  and  take  the  Uncommercial  measurement  with  their 
eyes,  as  fora  charmed  winding-sheet.  Some  grim  .discourse 
ensues,  referring  to  the  mistress  of  the  cave,  who  will  be  re- 
leased from  jail  to-morrow.  Witches  pronounce  Trampfoot 
right  there,’’  when  he  deems  it  a trying  distance  for  the  old 
lady  to  walk ; she  shall  be  fetched  by  niece  in  a spring-cart. 

As  I took  a parting  look  at  First  Witch  in  turning  away, 
the  red  marks  round  her  eyes  seemed  to  have  already  grown 
larger,  and  she  hungrily  and  thirstily  looked  out  beyond  me 
into  the  dark  doorway,  to  see  if  Jack  were  there.  For,  Jack 
came  even  here,  and  the  mistress  had  got  into  jail  through 
deluding  Jack. 

When  I at  last  ended  this  night  of  travel  and  got  to  bed, 
I failed  to  keep  my  mind  on  comfortable  thoughts  of  Seaman’s 
Homes  (not  overdone  with  strictness),  and  improved  dock 
regulations  giving  Jack  greater  benefit  of  fire  and  candle 
aboard  ship,  through  my  mind’s  wandering  among  the  vermin 
I had  seen.  Afterwards  the  same  vermin  ran  all  over  my 
sleep.  Evermore,  when  on  a breezy  day  I see  Poor  Mercantile 
J uck  running  into  port  with  a fair  wind  under  all  sail,  I shall 
think  of  the  unsleeping  host  of  devourers  who  never  go  to 
bed,  and  are  always  in  their  set  traps  waiting  for  him. 


64 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


VI. 


REFRESHMENTS  FOR  TRAVELLERS. 

In  the  late  high  winds  I was  blown  to  a great  many  places 
— and  indeed,  wind  or  no  wind,  I generally  have  extensive 
transactions  on  hand  in  the  article  of  Air  — but  I have  not 
been  blown  to  any  English  place  lately,  and  I very  seldom 
have  blown  to  any  English  place  in  my  life,  where  I could  get 
anything  good  to  eat  and  drink  in  live  minutes,  or  where,  if  I 
sought  it,  I was  received  with  a welcome. 

This  is  a curious  thing  to  consider.  But  before  (stimulated 
by  my  own  experiences  and  the  representations  of  many 
fellow-travellers  of  every  uncommercial  and  commercial  de- 
gree) I consider  it  further,  I must  utter  a passing  word  of 
wonder  concerning  high  winds. 

I wonder  why  metropolitan  gales  always  blow  so  hard  at 
Walworth.  I cannot  imagine  what  Walworth  has  done,  to 
bring  such  windy  punishment  upon  itself,  as  I never  fail  to 
find  recorded  in  the  newspapers  when  the  wind  has  blown  at 
all  hard.  Brixton  seems  to  have  something  on  its  conscience  ; 
Beckham  suffers  more  than  a virtuous  Beckham  might  be 
supposed  to  deserve ; the  howling  neighborhood  of  Deptford 
figures  largely  in  the  accounts  of  the  ingenious  gentlemen  who 
are  out  in  every  wind  that  blows,  and  to  whom  it  is  an  ill  high 
wind  that  blows  no  good  ; but,  there  can  hardly  be  any  Wal- 
worth left  by  this  time.  It  must  surely  be  blown  away.  I 
have  read  of  more  chimney  stacks  and  house  copings  coming 
down  with  terrific  smashes  at  Walworth,  and  of  more  sacred 
edifices  being  nearly  (not  quite)  blown  out  to  sea  from  the  same 
accursed  locality,  than  I have  read  of  practised  thieves  with 
the  appearance  and  manners  of  gentlemen  — a popular  phe- 
nomenon which  never  existed  on  earth  out  of  fiction  and  a 
police  report.  Again  : I wonder  why  people  are  always  blown 
into  the  Surrey  Canal,  and  into  no  other  piece  of  water ! Why 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


55 


do  people  get  up  early  and  go  out  in  groups  to  be  blown  into 
the  Surrey  Canal?  Do  they  say  to  one  another,  Welcome 
death,  so  that  we  get  into  the  newspapers  ? ’’  Even  that 
would  be  an  insufficient  explanation,  because  even  then  they 
might  sometimes  put  themselves  in  the  way  of  being  blown 
into  the  Kegent’s  Canal,  instead  of  always  saddling  Surrey 
for  the  field.  Soi  .e  nameless  policeman,  too,  is  constantly,  on 
the  slightest  provocation,  getting  himself  blown  into  this 
same  Surrey  Canal.  Will  Sir  Eichard  Mayne  see  to  it,  and 
restrain  that  weak-minded  and  feeble-bodied  constable  ? 

To  resume  the  consideration  of  the  curious  question  of 
Eefreshment.  I am  a Briton,  and,  as  such,  I am  aware  that 
I never  will  be  a slave  — and  yet  I have  latent  suspicion 
that  there  must  be  some  slavery  of  wrong  custom  in  this 
matter. 

I travel  by  railroad.  I start  from  home  at  seven  or  eight 
in  the  morning,  after  breakfasting  hurriedly.  What  with 
skimming  over  the  open  landscape,  what  with  mining  in  the 
damp  bowels  of  the  earth,  what  with  banging,  booming  and 
shrieking  the  scores  of  miles  away,  I am  hungry  when  I 
arrive  at  the  Eefreshment  station  where  I am  expected. 
Please  to  observe,  expected.  I have  said,  I am  hungry ; 
perhaps  I might  say,  with  greater  point  and  force,  that  I am 
to  some  extent  exhausted,  and  that  I need  — in  the  expressive 
French  sense  of  the  word  — to  be  restored.  What  is  pro- 
vided for  my  restoration  ? The  apartment  that  is  to  restore 
me  is  a wind-trap,  cunningly  set  to  inveigle  all  the  draughts 
in  that  country-side,  and  to  communicate  a special  intensity 
and  velocity  to  them  as  they  rotate  in  two  hurricanes : one, 
about  my  wretched  head : one,  about  my  wretched  legs.  The 
training  of  the  young  ladies  behind  the  counter  who  are  to 
restore  me,  has  been  from  their  infancy  directed  to  the  as- 
sumption of  a defiant  dramatic  show  that  I am  not  expected. 
It  is  in  vain  for  me  to  represent  to  them  by  my  humble  and 
conciliatory  manners,  that  I wish  to  be  liberal.  It  is  in  vain 
for  me  to  represent  to  myself,  for  the  encouragement  of  my 
sinking  soul,  that  the  young  ladies  have  a pecuniary  interest 
in  my  arrival.  Neither  my  reason  nor  my  feelings  can  make 
head  against  the  cold  glazed  glare  of  eye  with  which  I am 


56 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


assured  that  I am  not  expected,  and  not  wanted.  The  solitary 
man  among  the  bottles  would  sometimes  take  pity  on  me,  if 
he  dared,  but  he  is  powerless  against  the  rights  and  mights 
of  Woman.  (Of  the  page  I make  no  account,  for,  he  is  a boy, 
and  therefore  the  natural  enemy  of  Creation.)  Chilling  fast, 
in  the  deadly  tornadoes  to  which  my  upper  and  lower  extrem- 
ities are  exposed,  and  subdued  by  the  moral  disadvantage 
at  which  I stand,  I turn  my  disconsolate  eyes  on  the  refresh- 
ments that  are  to  restore  me.  I find  that  I must  either 
scald  my  throat  by  insanely  ladling  into  it,  against  time  and 
for  no  wager,  brown  hot  water  stiffened  with  flour ; or  I must 
make  myself  flaky  and  sick  with  Banbury  cake ; or,  I must 
stuff  into  my  delicate  organization,  a currant  pincushion  which 
I know  will  swell  into  immeasurable  dimensions  when  it  has 
got  there  ; or,  I must  extort  from  an  iron-bound  quarry,  with 
a fork,  as  if  I were  farming  an  inhospitable  soil,  some  glutinous 
lumps  of  gristle  and  grease,  called  pork-pie.  While  thus  for- 
lornly occupied,  I find  that  the  depressing  banquet  on  the 
table  is,  in  every  phrase  of  its  profoundly  unsatisfactory 
character,  so  like  the  banquet  at  the  meanest  and  shabbiest  of 
evening  parties,  that  I begin  to  think  I must  have  brought 
down  to  supper,  the  old  lady  unknown,  blue  with  cold,  who 
is  setting  her  teeth  on  edge  with  a cool  orange  at  my  elbow 

— that  the  pastrycook  who  has  compounded  for  the  company 
on  the  lowest  terms  per  head,  is  a fraudulent  bankrupt, 
redeeming  his  contract  with  the  stale  stock  from  his  window 

— that,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  the  family  giving  the 
party  have  become  my  mortal  foes,  and  have  given  it  on 
purpose  to  affront  me.  Or,  I fancy  that  I am  breaking  up  ’’ 
again,  at  the  evening  conversazione  at  school,  charged  two 
and  sixpence  in  the  half-year’s  bill ; or  breaking  down  again 
at  that  celebrated  evening  party  given  at  Mrs.  Bogles’s 
boarding-house  when  I was  a boarder  there,  on  which  occa- 
sion Mrs.  Bogles  was  taken  in  execution  by  a branch  of  the 
legal  profession  who  got  in  as  the  harp,  and  was  removed 
(with  the  keys  and  subscribed  capital)  to  a place  of  durance, 
half  an  hour  prior  to  the  commencement  of  the  festivities. 

Take  another  case. 

Mr.  Grazinglands,  of  the  Midland  Counties,  came  to  London 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER, 


57 


by  railroad  one  morning  last  week,  accompanied  by  the 
amiable  and  fascinating  Mrs.  Grazinglands.  Mr.  G.  is  a gen- 
tleman of  a comfortable  property,  and  had  a little  business  to 
transact  at  the  Bank  of  England,  which  required  the  con- 
currence and  signature  of  Mrs.  G.  Their  business  disposed 
of,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grazinglands  viewed  the  Eoyal  Exchange, 
and  the  exterior  of  St.  Pauhs  Cathedral.  The  spirits  of  Mrs. 
Grazinglands  then  gradually  beginning  to  flag,  Mr.  Grazing- 
lands (who  is  the  tenderest  of  husbands)  remarked  with 
sympathy,  Arabella,  my  dear,  I fear  you  are  faint.^’  Mrs. 
Grazinglands  replied,  Alexander,  I am  rather  faint ; but 
don’t  mind  me,  I shall  be  better  presently.’’  Touched  By 
the  feminine  meekness  of  this  answer,  Mr.  Grazinglands 
looked  in  at  a pastrycook’s  window,  hesitating  as  to  the  ex- 
pediency of  lunching  at  that  establishment.  He  beheld 
nothing  to  eat,  but  butter  in  various  forms,  slightly  charged 
with  jam,  and  languidly  frizzling  over  tepid  water.  Two 
ancient  turtle-shells,  on  which  was  inscribed  the  legend. 
Soups,”  decorated  a glass  partition  within,  enclosing  a 
stuffy  alcove,  from  which  a ghastly  mockery  of  a marriage- 
breakfast  spread  on  a rickety  table,  warned  the  terrified 
traveller.  An  oblong  box  of  stale  and  broken  pastry  at 
reduced  prices,  mounted  on  a stool,  ornamented  the  door- 
way ; and  two  high  chairs  that  looked  as  if  they  were  per- 
forming on  stilts,  embellished  the  counter.  Over  the  whole, 
a young  lady  presided,  whose  gloomy  haughtiness  as  she  sur- 
veyed the  street,  announced  a deep-seated  grievance  against 
society,  and  an  implacable  determination  to  be  avenged. 
From  a beetle-haunted  kitchen  below  this  institution,  fumes 
arose,  suggestive  of  a class  of  soup  which  Mr.  Grazinglands 
knew,  from  painful  experience,  enfeebles  the  mind,  distends 
the  stomach,  forces  itself  into  the  complexion,  and  tries  to 
ooze  out  at  the  eyes.  As  he  decided  against  entering,  and 
turned  away,  Mrs.  Grazinglands  becoming  perceptibly  weaker, 
repeated,  I’m  rather  faint,  Alexander,  but  don’t  mind  me.” 
Urged  to  new  efforts  by  these  words  of  resignation,  Mr. 
Grazinglands  looked  in  at  a cold  and  floury  baker’s  shop, 
where  utilitarian  buns  unrelieved  by  a currant,  consorted 
with  hard  biscuits,  a stone  filter  of  cold  water,  a hard  pale 


58 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


clock,  and  a hard  little  old  woman  with  flaxen  hair,  of  an 
undeveloped-farinaceous  aspect,  as  if  she  had  been  fed  upon 
seeds.  He  might  have  entered  even  here,  but  for  the  timely 
remembrance  coming  upon  him  that  Jairing’s  was  but  round 
the  corner. 

Now,  Jairing’s  being  an  hotel  for  families  and  gentlemen, 
in  high  repute  among  the  midland  counties,  Mr.  Grazing- 
lands  plucked  up  a great  spirit  when  he  told  Mrs.  Grazing- 
lands  she  should  have  a chop  there.  That  lady,  likewise, 
felt  that  she  was  going  to  see  Life.  Arriving  on  that  gay 
and  festive  scene,  they  found  the  second  waiter,  in  a flabby 
undress,  cleaning  the  windows  of  the  empty  coflee-room ; and 
the  first  waiter,  denuded  of  his  white  tie,  making  up  his 
cruets  behind  the  Post-Office  Directory.  The  latter  (who 
took  them  in  hand)  was  greatly  put  out  by  their  patronage, 
and  showed  his  mind  to  be  troubled  by  a sense  of  the  pressing 
necessity  of  instantly  smuggling  Mrs.  Grazinglands  into  the 
obscurest  corner  of  the  building.  This  slighted  lady  (who  is 
the  pride  of  her  division  of  the  county)  was  immediately 
conveyed,  by  several  dark  passages,  and  up  and  down  several 
steps,  into  a penitential  apartment  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
where  five  invalided  old  plate-warmers  leaned  up  against  one 
another  under  a discarded  old  melancholy  sideboard,  and 
where  the  wintry  leaves  of  all  the  dining-tables  in  the  house 
lay  thick.  Also,  a sofa,  of  incomprehensible  form,  regarded 
from  any  sofane  point  of  view,  murmured  Bed ; while  an  air 
of  mingled  fluffiness  and  heeltaps,  added,  Second  Waiter’s.’^ 
Secreted  in  this  dismal  hold,  objects  of  a mysterious  distrust 
and  suspicion,  Mr.  Grazinglands  and  his  charming  partner 
waited  twenty  minutes  for  the  smoke  (for  it  never  came  to  a 
fire),  twenty-five  minutes  for  the  sherry,  half  an  hour  for  the 
table-cloth,  forty  minutes  for  the  knives  and  forks,  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  for  the  chops,  and  an  hour  for  the 
potatoes.  On  settling  the  little  bill  — which  was  not  much 
more  than  the  day’s  pay  of  a Lieutenant  in  the  navy  — Mr. 
Grazinglands  took  heart  to  remonstrate  against  the  general 
quality  and  cost  of  his  reception.  To  whom  the  waiter  re- 
plied, substantially,  that  Jairing’s  made  it  a merit  to  have 
accepted  him  on  any  terms:  ^Hor,”  added  the  waiter  (unmis- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


59 


takably  coughing  at  Mrs.  Grazinglands,  the  pride  of  her 
division  of  the  county),  when  indiwiduals  is  not  staying  in 
the  ^Ouse,  their  favors  is  not  as  a rule  looked  upon  as 
making  it  worth  Mr.  Jairing’s  while  ; nor  is  it,  indeed,  a 
style  of  business  Mr.  Jairing  wishes.’^  Finally,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Grazinglands  passed  out  of  Jairing’s  hotel  for  Families 
and  Gentlemen,  in  a state  of  the  greatest  depression,  scorned 
by  the  bar;  and  did  not  recover  their  self-respect  for  several 
days. 

Or  take  another  case.  Take  your  own  case. 

You  are  going  off  by  railway,  from  any  Terminus.  You 
have  twenty  minutes  for  dinner,  before  you  go.  You  want 
your  dinner,  and  like  Dr.  Johnson,  Sir,  you  like  to  dine. 
You  present  to  your  mind,  a picture  of  the  refreshment-table 
at  that  terminus.  The  conventional  shabby  evening-party 
supper  — accepted  as  the  model  for  all  termini  and  all  re- 
freshment stations,  because  it  is  the  last  repast  known  to  this 
state  of  existence  of  which  any  human  creature  would  par- 
take, but  in  the  direst  extremity  — sickens  your  contempla- 
tion, and  your  words  are  these  : I cannot  dine  on  stale 
sponge-cakes  that  turn  to  sand  in  the  mouth.  I cannot  dine  on 
shining  brown  patties,  composed  of  unknown  animals  within, 
and  offering  to  my  view  the  device  of  an  indigestible  star-fish 
in  leaden  pie-crust  without.  I cannot  dine  on  a sandwich 
that  has  long  been  pining  under  an  exhausted  receiver.  I 
cannot  dine  on  barley  sugar.  I cannot  dine  on  Toffee.’’  You 
repair  to  the  nearest  hotel,  and  arrive,  agitated,  in  the  coffee- 
room. 

It  is  a most  astonishing  fact  that  the  waiter  is  very  cold  to 
you.  Account  for  it  how  you  may,  smooth  it  over  how  you 
will,  you  cannot  deny  that  he  is  cold  to  you.  He  is  not 
glad  to  see  you,  he  does  not  want  you,  he  would  much  rather 
you  hadn’t  come.  He  opposes  to  your  flushed  condition,  an 
immovable  composure.  As  if  this  were  not  enough,  another 
waiter,  born,  as  it  w^ould  seem,  expressly  to  look  at  you  in 
this  passage  of  your  life,  stands  at  a little  distance,  with  his 
napkin  under  his  arm  and  his  hands  folded,  looking  at  you 
with  all  his  might.  You  impress  on  your  waiter  that  you  have 
ten  minutes  for  dinner,  and  he  proposes  that  you  shall  begin 


60 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER. 


with  a bit  of  fish  which  will  be  ready  in  twenty.  That  pro- 
posal declined,  he  suggests  — as  a neat  originality  — a weal 
or  mutton  cutlet.’^  You  close  with  either  cutlet,  any  cutlet,  any- 
thing. He  goes,  leisurely,  behind  a door  and  calls  down  some 
unseen  shaft.  A ventriloquial  dialogue  ensues,  tending  finally 
to  the  effect  that  weal  only  is  available  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment.  You  anxiously  call  out,  Veal,  then  ! ’’  Your  waiter 
having  settled  that  point,  returns  to  array  your  table-cloth,  with 
a table  napkin  folded  cocked-hat-wise  (slowly,  for  something 
out  of  window  engages  his  eye),  a white  wine-glass,  a green 
wine-glass,  a blue  finger-glass,  a tumbler,  and  a powerful 
field  battery  of  fourteen  casters  with  nothing  in  them ; or  at 
all  events  — which  is  enough  for  your  purpose  — with  nothing 
in  them  that  will  come  out.  All  this  time,  the  other  waiter 
looks  at  you  — with  an  air  of  mental  comparison  and  curiosity, 
now,  as  if  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  you  are  rather  like 
his  brother.  Half  your  time  gone,  and  nothing  come  but  the 
jug  of  ale  and  the  bread,  you  implore  j^our  waiter  to  ^^See 
after  that  cutlet,  waiter  ; pray  do  ! He  cannot  go  at  once, 
for  he  is  carrying  in  seventeen  pounds  of  American  cheese 
for  you  to  finish  with,  and  a small  Landed  Estate  of  celery 
and  water-cresses.  The  other  waiter  changes  his  leg,  and 
takes  a new  view  of  you,  doubtfully,  now,  as  if  he  had  re- 
jected the  resemblance  to  his  brother,  and  had  begun  to 
think  you  more  like  his  aunt  or  his  grandmother.  Again 
you  beseech  your  waiter  with  pathetic  indignation,  to  see 
after  that  cutlet ! He  steps  out  to  see  after  it,  and  by 
and  by,  when  you  are  going  away  without  it,  comes  back 
wdth  it.  Even  then,  he  will  not  take  the  sham  silver  cover 
off,  without  a pause  for  a flourish,  and  a look  at  the  musty 
cutlet  as  if  he  were  surprised  to  see  it  — which  cannot  possibly 
be  the  case,  he  must  have  seen  it  so  often  before.  A sort  of 
fur  has  been  produced  upon  its  surface  by  the  cook’s  art,  and 
in  a sham  silver  vessel  staggering  on  two  feet  instead  of 
three,  is  a cutaneous  kind  of  sauce,  of  brown  pimples  and 
pickled  cucumber.  You  order  the  bill,  but  your  waiter 
cannot  bring  your  bill  yet,  because  he  is  bringing,  instead, 
three  flinty-hearted  potatoes  and  two  grim  head  of  broccoli, 
like  the  occasional  ornaments  on  area  railings,  badly  boiled. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


61 


You  know  that  you  will  never  come  to  this  pass,  any  more 
than  to  the  cheese  and  the  celery,  and  you  imperatively 
demand  your  bill ; but,  it  takes  time  to  get,  even  when  gone 
for,  because  your  waiter  has  to  communicate  with  a lady  who»^ 
lives  behind  a sash-window  in  a corner,  and  who  appears  to 
have  to  refer  to  several  Ledgers  before  she  can  make  it  out  — 
as  if  you  had  been  staying  there  a year.  You  become  dis- 
tracted to  get  away,  and  the  other  waiter,  once  more  changing 
his  leg;  still  looks  at  you  — but  suspiciously,  now,  as  if  you 
had  begun  to  remind  him  of  the  party  who  took  the  great- 
coats last  winter.  Your  bill  at  last  brought  and  paid,  at  the 
rate  of  sixpence  a mouthful,  your  waiter  reproachfully  re- 
minds you  that  attendance  is  not  charged  for  a single  meal,’’ 
and  you  have  to  search  in  all  your  pockets  for  sixpence 
more.  He  has  a worse  opinion  of  you  than  ever,  when  you 
have  given  it  to  him,  and  lets  you  out  into  the  street  with  the 
air  of  one  saying  to  himself,  as  you  cannot  doubt  he  is,  I 
hope  we  shall  never  see  you  here  again  ! ” . 

Or,  take  any  other  of  the  numerous  travelling  instances  in 
which,  with  more  time  at  your  disposal,  you  are,  have  been, 
or  may  be,  equally  ill  served.  Take  the  old-established 
Bull’s  Head  with  its  old-established  knife-boxes  on  its  old- 
established  sideboards,  its  old-established  flue  under  its  old- 
established  four-post  bedsteads  in  its  old-established  airless 
rooms,  its  old-established  frowziness  up-stairs  and  down-stairs, 
its  old-established  cookery,  and  its  old-established  principles 
of  plunder.  Count  up  3"Our  injuries,  in  its  side-dishes  of  ailing 
sweetbreads  in  white  poultices,  of  apothecaries’  powders  in 
rice  for  curry,  of  pale  stewed  bits  of  calf  ineffectually  relying 
for  an  adventitious  interest  on  forcemeat  balls.  You  have 
had  experience  of  the  old-established  Bull’s  Head  stringjr 
fowls,  with  lower  extremities  like  wooden  legs,  sticking  up 
out  of  the  dish  ; of  its  cannibalic  boiled  mutton,  gushing 
horribly  among  its  capers,  when  carved ; of  its  little  dishes 
of  pastr}^  — roofs  of  spermaceti  ointment,  erected  over  half 
an  apple  or  four  gooseberries.  Well  for  you  if  you  have  yet 
forgotten  the  old-established  Bull’s  Head  fruity  port ; whose 
reputation  was  gained  solely  by  the  old-established  price  the 
Bull’s  Head  put  upon  it,  and  by  the  old-established  air  with 


62 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


which  the  Bulhs  Head  set  the  glasses  and  D’Oyleys  on, 
and  held  that  Liquid  Gout  to  the  three  and  sixpenny  wax- 
candle,  as  if  its  old-established  color  hadn’t  come  from  the 
dyer’s. 

Or  lastly,  take  to  finish  with,  two  cases  that  we  all  know, 
every  day. 

We  all  know  the  new  hotel  near  the  station,  where  it  is 
always  gusty,  going  up  the  lane  which  is  always  muddy, 
where  we  are  sure  to  arrive  at  night,  and  where  we ‘make 
the  gas  start  awfully  when  we  open  the  front  door.  We  all 
know  the  flooring  of  the  passages  and  staircases  that  is 
too  new,  and  the  walls  that  are  too  new,  and  the  house  that 
is  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  mortar.  We  all  know  the  doors 
that  have  cracked,  and  the  cracked  shutters  through  which 
we  get  a glimpse  of  the  disconsolate  moon.  We  all  know 
the  new  people,  who  have  come  to  keep  the  new  hotel,  and 
who  wish  they  had  never  come,  and  who  (inevitable  result) 
wish  we  had  never  come.  We  all  know  how  much  too  scant 
and  smooth  and  bright  the  new  furniture  is,  and  how  it  has 
never  settled  down,  and  cannot  fit  itself  into  right  places,  and 
will  get  into  wrong  places.  We  all  know  how  the  gas, 
being  lighted,  shows  maps  of  Damp  upon  the  walls.  We 
all  know  how  the  ghost  of  mortar  passes  into  our  sandwich, 
stirs  our  negus,  goes  up  to  bed  with  us,  ascends  the  pale  bed- 
room chimney,  and  prevents  the  smoke  from  following.  We 
all  know  how  a leg  of  our  chair  comes  off  at  breakfast  in  the 
morning,  and  how  the  dejected  waiter  attributes  the  accident 
to  a general  greenness  pervading  the  establishment,  and  in- 
forms us,  in  reply  to  a local  inquiry,  that  he  is  thankful  to  say 
he  is  an  entire  stranger  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  is 
going  back  to  his  own  connection  on  Saturday. 

We  all  know,  on  the  other  hand,  the  great  station  hotel 
belonging  to  the  company  of  proprietors,  which  has  suddenly 
sprung  up  in  the  back  outskirts  of  any  place  we  like  to  name, 
and  where  we  look  out  of  our  palatial  windows,  at  little  back- 
yards and  gardens,  old  summer-houses,  fowl-houses,  pigeon- 
traps,  and  pigsties.  We  all  know  this  hotel  in  which  we  can 
get  anything  we  want,  after  its  kind,  for  money ; but  where 
nobody  is  glad  to  see  us,  or  sorry  to  see  us,  or  minds  (our  bill 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


63 


paid)  whether  we  come  or  go,  or  how,  or  when,  or  why,  or 
cares  about  us.  We  all  know  this  hotel,  where  we  have  no 
individuality,  but  put  ourselves  into  the  general  post,  as  it 
were,  and  are  sorted  and  disposed  of  according  to  our  divis- 
ion. We  all  know  that  we  can  get  on  very  well  indeed  at 
such  a place,  but  still  not  perfectly  well ; and  this  may  be, 
because  the  place  is  largely  wholesale,  and  there  is  a lingering 
personal  retail  interest  within  us  that  asks  to  be  satisfied. 

To  sum  up.  My  uncommercial  travelling  has  not  yet 
brought  me  to  the  conclusion  that  we  are  close  to  perfection 
in  these  matters.  And  just  as  I do  not  believe  that  the  end 
of  the  world  will  ever  be  near  at  hand,  so  long  as  any  of  the 
very  tiresome  and  arrogant  people  who  constantly  predict 
that  catastrophe  are  left  in  it,  so  I shall  have  small  faith  in 
the  Hotel  Millennium,  while  any  of  the  uncomfortable  super- 
stitions I have  glanced  at  remain  in  existence. 


64 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


VII. 

TRAVELLING  ABROAD. 

I GOT  into  the  travelling  chariot  — it  was  of  German  make, 
roomy,  heavy,  and  unvarnished  — I got  into  the  travelling 
chariot,  pulled  up  the  steps  after  me,  shut  myself  in  with  a 
smart  bang  of  the  door,  and  gave  the  word,  Go  on  ! 

Immediately,  all  that  W.  and  S.W.  division  of  London 
began  to  slide  away  at  a pace  so  lively,  that  I was  over  the 
river,  and  past  the  Old  Kent  Eoad,  and  out  on  Blackheath, 
and  even  ascending  Shooter’s  Hill,  before  I had  had  time  to 
look  about  me  in  the  carriage,  like  a collected  traveller. 

I had  two  ample  Imperials  on  the  roof,  other  fitted  storage 
for  luggage  in  front,  and  other  up  behind ; I had  a net  for 
books  overhead,  great  pockets  to  all  the  windows,  a leathern 
pouch  or  two  hung  up  for  odds  and  ends,  and  a reading-lamp 
fixed  in  the  back  of  the  chariot,  in  case  I should  be  benighted. 
I was  amply  provided  in  all  respects,  and  had  no  idea  where 
I was  going  (which  was  delightful),  except  that  I was  going 
abroad. 

So  smooth  was  the  old  high  road,  and  so  fresh  were  the 
horses,  and  so  fast  went  I,  that  it  was  midway  between 
Gravesend  and  Eochester,  and  the  widening  river  was  bearing 
the  ships,  white  sailed,  or  black  smoked,  out  to  sea,  when  I 
noticed  by  the  wayside  a very  queer  small  boy. 

Holloa ! ” said  I,  to  the  very  queer  small  boy,  where  do 
you  live  ? ” 

At  Chatham,”  says  he. 

What  do  you  do  there  ? ” says  I. 
go  to  school,”  says  he. 

I took  him  up  in  a moment,  and  we  went  on.  Presently, 
the  very  queer  small  boy  says,  This  is  Gads  Hill  we  are 
coming  to,  where  Falstaff  went  out  to  rob  those  travellers, 
and  ran  away.” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


65 


You  know  something  about  Falstaff,  eh  ? ’’  said  I. 

^^All  about  him/^  said  the  very  queer  small  boy.  am 
old  (I  am  nine)  and  I read  all  sorts  of  books.  But  do  let  us 
stop  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  look  at  the  house  there,  if  you 
please ! ’’ 

You  admire  that  house  ? said  I. 

“ Bless  you,  sir,’^  said  the  very  queer  small  boy,  when  I 
was  not  more  than  half  as  old  as  nine,  it  used  to  be  a treat  for 
me  to  be  brought  to  look  at  it.  And  now,  I am  nine,  I come 
by  myself  to  look  at  it.  And  ever  since  I can  recollect,  my 
father,  seeing  me  so  fond  of  it,  has  often  said  to  me,  ^ If  you 
were  to  be  very  persevering  and  were  to  work  hard,  you  might 
some  day  come  to  live  in  it.’  Though  that’s  impossible ! ” 
said  the  very  queer  small  boy,  drawing  a low  breath,  and  now 
staring  at  the  house  out  of  window  with  all  his  might. 

I was  rather  amazed  to  be  told  this  by  the  very  queer  small 
boy ; for  that  house  happens  to  be  my  house,  and  I have 
reason  to  believe  that  what  he  said  was  true. 

Well!  I made  no  halt  there,  and  I soon  dropped  the  very 
queer  small  boy  and  went  on.  Over  the  road  where  the  old 
Komans  used  to  march,  over  the  road  where  the  old  Canter- 
bury pilgrims  used  to  go,  over  the  road  where  the  travelling 
trains  of  the  old  imperious  priests  and  princes  used  to  jingle 
on  horseback  between  the  continent  and  this  Island  through 
the  mud  and  water,  over  the  road  where  Shakespeare  hummed 
to  himself,  Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind,”  as  he  sat  in  the 
saddle  at  the  gate  of  the  inn  yard  noticing  the  carriers ; all 
among  the  cherry  orchards,  apple  orchards,  corn-fields,  and 
hop-gardens ; so  went  I,  by  Canterbury  to  Dover.  There,  the 
sea  was  tumbling  in,  with  deep  sounds,  after  dark,  and  the 
revolving  French  light  on  Cape  Grinez  was  seen  regularly 
bursting  out  and  becoming  obscured,  as  if  the  head  of  a 
gigantic  light-keeper  in  an  anxious  state  of  mind  were  inter- 
posed every  half-minute,  to  look  how  it  was  burning. 

Early  in  the  morning  I was  on  the  deck  of  the  steam- 
packet,  and  we  were  aiming  at  the  bar  in  the  usual  intolerable 
manner,  and  the  bar  was  aiming  at  us  in  the  usual  intolerable 
manner,  and  the  bar  got  by  far  the  best  of  it,  and  we  got  by 
far  the  worst  — all  in  the  usual  intolerable  manner. 


66 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLEB, 


But,  when  I was  clear  of  the  Custom  House  on  the  other 
side,  and  when  I began  to  make  the  dust  fly  on  the  thirsty 
French  roads,  and  when  the  twigsome  trees  by  the  wayside 
(which,  I suppose,  never  will  grow  leafy,  for  they  never  did) 
guarded  here  and  there  a dusty  soldier,  or  field  laborer,  baking 
on  a heap  of  broken  stones,  sound  asleep  in  a fiction  of  shade, 
I began  to  recover  my  travelling  spirits.  Coming  upon  the 
breaker  of  the  broken  stones,  in  a hard  hot  shining  hat,  on 
which  the  sun  played  at  a distance  as  on  a burning  glass,  I 
felt  that  now,  indeed,  I was  in  the  dear  old  France  of  my 
affection.  I should  have  known  it,  without  the  well-remem- 
bered bottle  of  rough  ordinary  wine,  the  cold  roast  fowl,  the 
loaf,  and  the  pinch  of  salt,  on  which  I lunched  with  unspeak- 
able satisfaction,  from  one  of  the  stuffed  pockets  of  the 
charioto 

I must  have  fallen  asleep  after  lunch,  for  when  a bright 
face  looked  in  at  the  window,  I started,  and  said,  — 

Good  God,  Louis,  I dreamed  you  were  dead ! 

My  cheerful  servant  laughed  and  answered,  — 

‘‘  Me  ? Not  at  all,  sir.’’ 

How  glad  I am  to  wake  ! What  are  we  doing,  Louis  ? ” 
We  go  to  take  relay  of  horses.  Will  you  walk  up  the 
hill  ? ” 

Certainly.” 

Welcome  the  old  French  hill,  with  the  old  French  lunatic 
(not  in  the  most  distant  degree  related  to  Sterne’s  Maria) 
living  in  a thatched  dog-kennel  half  way  up,  and  flying  out 
with  his  crutch  and  his  big  head  and  extended  nightcap,  to 
be  beforehand  with  the  old  men  and  women  exhibiting  crippled 
children,  and  with  the  children  exhibiting  old  men  and  women, 
ugly  and  blind,  who  always  seemed  by  resurrectionary  process 
to  be  recalled  out  of  the  elements  for  the  sudden  peopling  of 
the  solitude ! 

^^It  is  well,”  said  I,  scattering  among  them  what  small 
coin  I had ; here  comes  Louis,  and  I am  quite  roused  from 
my  nap.” 

We  journeyed  on  again,  and  I welcomed  every  new  assur- 
ance that  France  stood  where  I had  left  it.  There  were  the 
posting-houses,  with  their  archways,  dirty  stable-yards,  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


67 


clean  postmasters’  wives,  bright  women  of  business,  looking 
on  at  the  putting-to  of  the  horses ; there  were  the  postilions 
counting  what  money  they  got,  into  their  hats,  and  never 
making  enough  of  it ; there  were  the  standard  population  of 
gray  horses  of  Flanders  descent,  invariably  biting  one  another 
when  they  got  a chance  ; there  were  the  fleecy  sheepskins, 
looped  on  over  their  uniforms  by  the  postilions,  like  bibbed 
aprons  when  it  blew  and  rained ; there  were  their  jack-boots 
and  their  cracking  whips ; there  were  the  cathedrals  that  I 
got  out  to  see,  as  under  some  cruel  bondage,  in  no  wise  desir- 
ing to  see  them ; there  were  the  little  towns  that  appeared  to 
have  no  reason  for  being  towns,  since  most  of  their  houses 
were  to  let  and  nobody  could  be  induced  to  look  at  them, 
except  the  people  who  couldn’t  let  them  and  had  nothing  else 
to  do  but  look  at  them  all  day.  I lay  a night  upon  the  road 
and  enjoyed  delectable  cookery  of  potatoes,  and  some  other 
sensible  things,  adoption  of  which  at  home  would  inevitably 
be  shown  to  be  fraught  with  ruin,  somehow  or  other,  to  that 
rickety  national  blessing,  the  British  farmer  ; and  at  last  I 
was  rattled,  like  a single  pill  in  a box,  over  leagues  of  stones, 
until  — madly  cracking,  plunging,  and  flourishing  two  gray 
tails  about  — I made  my  triumphal  entry  into  Paris. 

At  Paris,  I took  an  upper  apartment  for  a few  days  in  one 
of  the  hotels  of  the  Pue  de  Rivoli ; my  front  windows  looking 
into  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  (where  the  principal  difference 
between  the  nursemaids  and  the  flowers  seemed  to  be  that  the 
former  were  locomotive  and  the  latter  not)  : my  back  windows 
looking  at  all  the  other  back  windows  in  the  hotel,  and  deep 
down  into  a paved  yard,  where  my  German  chariot  had  retired 
under  a tight-fitting  archway,  to  all  appearance  for  life,  and 
where  bells  rang  all  day  without  anybody’s  minding  them  but 
certain  chamberlains  with  feather  brooms  and  green  baize  caps, 
who  here  and  there  leaned  out  of  some  high  window  placidly 
looking  down,  and  where  neat  waiters  with  trays  on  their  left 
shoulders  passed  and  repassed  from  morning  to  night. 

Whenever  I am  at  Paris,  I am  dragged  by  invisible  force 
into  the  Morgue.  I never  want  to  go  there,  but  am  always 
pulled  there.  One  Christmas  Day,  when  I would  rather  have 
been  anywhere  else,  I was  attracted  in,  to  see  an  old  gray  man 


68 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


lying  all  alone  on  his  cold  bed,  with  a tap  of  water  turned  on 
over  his  gray  hair,  and  running  drip,  drip,  drip,  down  his 
wretched  face  until  it  got  to  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  where 
it  took  a turn,  and  made  him  look  sly.  One  New  Year’s  Morn- 
ing (by  the  same  token,  the  sun  was  shining  outside,  and  there 
was  a mountebank  balancing  a feather  on  his  nose,  within  a 
yard  of  the  gate),  I was  pulled  in  again  to  look  at  a flaxen- 
haired boy  of  eighteen,  with  a heart  hanging  on  his  breast  — 
from  his  mother,”  was  engraven  on  it  — who  had  come  into 
the  net  across  the  river,  with  a bullet  wound  in  his  fair  fore- 
head and  his  hands  cut  with  a knife,  but  whence  or  how  was 
a blank  mystery.  This  time,  I was  forced  into  the  same  dread 
place,  to  see  a large  dark  man  whose  disfigurement  by  water 
was  in  a frightful  manner  comic,  and  whose  expression  was 
that  of  a prize-fighter  who  had  closed  his  eyelids  under  a heavy 
blow,  but  was  going  immediately  to  open  them,  shake  his  head, 
and  come  up  smiling.”  Oh  what  this  large  dark  man  cost 
me  in  that  bright  city ! 

It  was  very  hot  weather,  and  he  was  none  the  better  for 
that,  and  I was  much  the  worse.  Indeed,  a very  neat  and 
pleasant  little  woman  with  the  key  of  her  lodging  on  her 
forefinger,  who  had  been  showing  him  to  her  little  girl  while 
she  and  the  child  ate  sweetmeats,  observed  monsieur  looking 
poorly  as  we  came  out  together,  and  asked  monsieur,  with  her 
wondering  little  eyebrows  prettily  raised,  if  there  were  any- 
thing the  matter  ? Faintly  replying  in  the  negative,  monsieur 
crossed  the  road  to  a wine-shop,  got  some  brandy,  and  resolved 
to  freshen  himself  with  a dip  in  the  great  floating  bath  on  the 
river. 

The  bath  was  crowded  in  the  usual  airy  manner,  by  a male 
population  in  striped  drawers  of  various  gay  colors,  who  walked 
up  and  down  arm  in  arm,  drank  coffee,  smoked  cigars,  sat  at 
little  tables,  conversed  politely  with  the  damsels  who  dispensed 
the  towels,  and  every  now  and  then  pitched  themselves  into  the 
river  head  foremost,  and  came  out  again  to  repeat  this  social 
routine.  I made  haste  to  participate  in  the  water  part  of  the 
entertainments,  and  was  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  a delightful 
bath,  when  all  in  a moment  I was  seized  with  an  unreasonable 
idea  that  the  large  dark  body  was  floating  straight  at  me. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


69 


I was  out  of  the  river,  and  dressing  instantly.  In  the  shock 
I had  taken  some  water  into  my  mouth,  and  it  turned  me  sick, 
for  I fancied  that  the  contamination  of  the  creature  was  in  it. 
I had  got  back  to  my  cool  darkened  room  in  the  hotel,  and  was 
lying  on  a sofa  there,  before  I began  to  reason  with  myself. 

Of  course,  I knew  perfectly  well  that  the  large  dark  creature 
was  stone  dead,  and  that  I should  no  more  come  upon  him  out 
of  the  place  where  I had  seen  him  dead,  than  I should  come 
upon  the  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  in  an  entirely  new  situation. 
What  troubled  me  was  the  picture  of  the  creature ; and  that 
had  so  curiously  and  strongly  painted  itself  upon  my  brain, 
that  I could  not  get  rid  of  it  until  it  was  worn  out. 

I noticed  the  peculiarities  of  this  possession,  while  it  was  a 
real  discomfort  to  me.  That  very  day,  at  dinner,  some  morsel 
on  my  plate  looked  like  a piece  of  him,  and  I was  glad  to  get 
up  and  go  out.  Later  in  the  evening,  I was  walking  along 
the  Rue  St.  Honore,  when  I saw  a bill  at  a public  room  there, 
announcing  small-sword  exercise,  broad-sword  exercise,  wrest- 
ling, and  other  such  feats.  I went  in,  and  some  of  the  sword- 
play being  very  skilful,  remained.  A specimen  of  our  own 
national  sport.  The  British  Boaxe,  was  announced  to  be  given 
at  the  close  of  the  evening.  In  an  evil  hour,  I determined  to 
wait  for  this  Boaxe,  as  became  a Briton.  It  was  a clumsy 
specimen  (executed  by  two  English  grooms  out  of  place),  but 
one  of  the  combatants,  receiving  a straight  right-hander  with 
the  glove  between  his  eyes,  did  exactly  what  the  large  dark 
creature  in  the  Morgue  had  seemed  going  to  do  — and  finished 
me  for  that  night. 

There  was  rather  a sickly  smell  (not  at  all  an  unusual  fra- 
grance in  Paris)  in  the  little  ante-room  of  my  apartment  at 
the  hotel.  The  large  dark  creature  in  the  Morgue  was  by  no 
direct  experience  associated  with  my  sense  of  smell,  because, 
when  I came  to  the  knowledge  of  him,  he  lay  behind  a wall 
of  thick  plate-glass  as  good  as  a wall  of  steel  or  marble  for 
that  matter.  Yet  the  whiff  of  the  room  never  failed  to  repro- 
duce him.  What  was  more  curious,  was  the  capriciousness 
with  which  his  portrait  seemed  to  light  itself  up  in  my  mind, 
elsewhere.  I might  be  walking  in  the  Palais  Royal,  lazily 
enjoying  the  shop  windows,  and  might  be  regaling  myself 


70 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


with  one  of  the  ready-made  clothes  shops  that  are  set  out 
there.  My  eye,  wandering  over  impossible-waisted  dressing- 
gowns  and  luminous  waistcoats,  would  fall  upon  the  master, 
or  the  shopman,  or  even  the  very  dummy  at  the  door,  and 
would  suggest  to  me,  Something  like  him  ! — and  instantly 
I was  sickened  again. 

This  would  happen  at  the  theatre,  in  the  same  manner. 
Often  it  would  happen  in  the  streets,  when  I certainly  was 
not  looking  for  the  likeness,  and  when  probably  there  was  no 
likeness  there.  It  was  not  because  the  creature  was  dead  that 
I was  so  haunted,  because  I know  that  I might  have  been  (and 
I know  it  because  I have  been)  equally  attended  by  the  image 
of  a living  aversion.  This  lasted  about  a week.  The  picture 
did  not  fade  by  degrees,  in  the  sense  that  it  became  a whit 
less  forcible  and  distinct,  but  in  the  sense  that  it  obtruded 
itself  less  and  less  frequently.  The  experience  may  be  worth 
considering  by  some  who  have  the  care  of  children.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  overstate  the  intensity  and  accuracy  of  an  intel- 
ligent child’s  observation.  At  that  impressible  time  of  life, 
it  must  sometimes  produce  a fixed  impression.  If  the  fixed 
impression  be  of  an  object  terrible  to  the  child,  it  will  be  (for 
want  of  reasoning  upon)  inseparable  from  great  fear.  Force 
the  child  at  such  a time,  be  Spartan  with  it,  send  it  into  the 
dark  against  its  will,  leave  it  in  a lonely  bedroom  against  its 
will,  and  you  had  better  murder  it. 

On  a bright  morning  I rattled  away  from  Paris,  in  the 
German  chariot,  and  left  the  large  dark  creature  behind  me 
for  good.  I ought  to  confess,  though,  that  I had  been  drawn 
back  to  the  Morgue,  after  he  was  put  underground,  to  look  at 
his  clothes,  and  that  I found  them  frightfully  like  him  — par- 
ticularly his  boots.  However,  I rattled  away  for  Switzerland, 
looking  forward  and  not  backward,  and  so  we  parted  company. 

Welcome  again,  the  long  long  spell  of  France,  with  the  queer 
country  inns,  full  of  vases  of  fiowers  and  clocks,  in  the  dull 
little  towns,  and  with  the  little  population  not  at  all  dull  on 
the  little  Boulevard  in  the  evening,  under  the  little  trees  ! 
Welcome  Monsieur  the  Cure  walking  alone  in  the  early  morn- 
ing a short  way  out  of  the  town,  reading  that  eternal  Breviary 
of  yours,  which  surely  might  be  almost  read,  without  book,  by 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


71 


this  time  ! Welcome  Monsieur  the  Cure,  later  in  the  day,  jolt- 
ing through  the  highway  dust  (as  if  you  had  already  ascended 
to  the  cloudy  region),  in  a very  big-headed  cabriolet,  with  the 
dried  mud  of  a dozen  winters  on  it.  Welcome  again  Monsieur 
the  Cure,  as  we  exchange  salutations ; you,  straightening  your 
back  to  look  at  the  German  chariot,  while  picking  in  your 
little  village  garden  a vegetable  or  two  for  the  day’s  soup : I, 
looking  out  of  the  German  chariot  window  in  that  delicious 
traveller’s  trance  which  knows  no  cares,  no  yesterdays,  no  to- 
morrows, nothing  but  the  passing  objects  and  the  passing 
scents  and  sounds  ! And  so  I came,  in  due  course  of  delight, 
to  Strasbourg,  where  I passed  a wet  Sunday  evening  at  a 
window,  while  an  idle  trifle  of  a vaudeville  was  played  for  me 
at  the  opposite  house. 

How  such  a large  house  came  to  have  only  three  people 
living  in  it,  was  its  own  affair.  There  were  at  least  a score 
of  windows  in  its  high  roof  alone ; how  many  in  its  grotesque 
front,  I soon  gave  up  counting.  The  owner  was  a shopkeeper, 
by  name  Straudenheim ; by  trade  — I couldn’t  make  out  what 
by  trade,  for  he  had  forborne  to  write  that  up,  and  his  shop 
was  shut. 

At  first,  as  I looked  at  Straudenheim’s,  through  the  steadily 
falling  rain,  I set  him  up  in  business  in  the  goose-liver  line. 
But,  inspection  of  Straudenheim,  who  became  visible  at  a 
window  on  the  second  floor,  convinced  me  that  there  was 
something  more  precious  than  liver  in  the  case.  He  wore  a 
black  velvet  skull-cap,  and  looked  usurious  and  rich.  A 
large-lipped,  pear-nosed  old  man,  with  white  hair,  and  keen 
eyes,  though  near-sighted.  He  was  writing  at  a desk,  was 
Straudenheim,  and  ever  and  again  left  off  writing,  put  his 
pen  in  his  mouth,  and  went  through  actions  with  his  right 
hand,  like  a man  steadying  piles  of  cash.  Five-franc  pieces, 
Straudenheim,  or  golden  ISTapoleons  ? A jeweller,  Strauden- 
heim, a dealer  in  money,  a diamond  merchant,  or  what  ? 

Below  Straudenheim,  at  a window  on  the  first  floor,  sat  his 
housekeeper  — far  from  young,  but  of  a comely  presence,  sug- 
gestive of  a well-matured  foot  and  ankle.  She  was  cheerily 
dressed,  had  a fan  in  her  hand,  and  wore  large  gold  earrings 
and  a large  gold  cross.  She  would  have  been  out  holiday- 


72 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


making  (as  I settled  it)  but  for  the  pestilent  rain.  Straus- 
bourg  had  given  up  holiday-making  for  that  once,  as  a bad 
job,  because  the  rain  was  jerking  in  gushes  out  of  the  old 
roof-spouts,  and  running  in  a brook  down  the  middle  of  the 
street.  The  housekeeper,  her  arms  folded  on  her  bosom  and 
her  fan  tapping  her  chin,  was  bright  and  smiling  at  her  open 
window,  but  otherwise  Straudenheim’s  house  front  was  very 
dreary.  The  housekeeper’s  was  the  only  open  window  in  it ; 
Straudenheim  kept  himself  close,  though  it  was  a sultry 
evening  when  air  is  pleasant,  and  though  the  rain  had 
brought  into  the  town  that  vague  refreshing  smell  of  grass 
which  rain  does  bring  in  the  summer-time. 

The  dim  appearance  of  a man  at  Straudenheim’s  shoulder, 
inspired  me  with  a misgiving  that  somebody  had  come  to 
murder  that  flourishing  merchant  for  the  wealth  with  which 
I had  handsomely  endowed  him  : the  rather,  as  it  was  an 
excited  man,  lean  and  long  of  figure,  and  evidently  stealthy 
of  foot.  But,  he  conferred  with  Straudenheim  instead  of 
doing  him  a mortal  injury,  and  then  they  both  softly  opened 
the  other  window  of  that  room  — which  was  immediately 
over  the  housekeeper’s  — and  tried  to  see  her  by  looking 
down.  And  my  opinion  of  Straudenheim  was  much  lowered 
when  I saw  that  eminent  citizen  spit  out  of  window,  clearly 
with  the  hope  of  spitting  on  the  housekeeper. 

The  unconscious  housekeeper  fanned  herself,  tossed  her  head, 
and  laughed.  Though  unconscious  of  Straudenheim,  she  was 
conscious  of  somebody  else  — of  me  ? — there  was  nobody  else. 

After  leaning  so  far  out  of  window,  that  I confidently 
expected  to  see  their  heels  tilt  up,  Straudenheim  and  the 
lean  man  drew  their  heads  in  and  shut  the  window.  Pres- 
ently, the  house  door  secretly  opened,  and  they  slowly  and 
spitefully  crept  forth  into  the  pouring  rain.  They  were 
coming  over  to  me  (I  thought)  to  demand  satisfaction  for  my 
looking  at  the  housekeeper,  when  they  plunged  into  a recess 
in  the  architecture  under  my  window  and  dragged  out  the 
puniest  of  little  soldiers,  begirt  with  the  most  innocent  of 
little  swords.  The  tall  glazed  head-dress  of  this  warrior, 
Straudenheim  instantly  knocked  off,  and  out  of  it  fell  two 
sugar-sticks,  and  three  or  four  large  lumps  of  sugar. 


THE  UNCOMMEliCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


73 


The  warrior  made  no  effort  to  recover  his  property  or  to 
pick  up  his  shako,  but  looked  with  an  expression  of  attention 
at  Straudenheim  when  he  kicked  him  five  times,  and  also  at 
the  lean  man  when  he  kicked  him  five  times,  and  again  at 
Straudenheim  when  he  tore  the  breast  of  his  (the  warrior’s) 
little  coat  open,  and  shook  all  his  ten  fingers  in  his  face,  as 
if  they  were  ten  thousand.  When  these  outrages  had  been 
committed,  Straudenheim  and  his  man  went  into  the  house 
again  and  barred  the  door.  A wonderful  circumstance  was, 
that  the  housekeeper  who  saw  it  all  (and  who  could  have 
taken  six  such  warriors  to  her  buxom  bosom  at  once),  only 
fanned  herself  and  laughed  as  she  had  laughed  before,  and 
seemed  to  have  no  opinion  about  it,  one  way  or  other. 

But,  the  chief  effect  of  the  drama  was  the  remarkable  ven- 
geance taken  by  the  little  warrior.  Left  alone  in  the  rain,  he 
picked  up  his  shako ; put  it  on,  all  wet  and  dirty  as  it  was ; 
retired  into  a court,  of  which  Straudenheim’s  house  formed 
the  corner ; wheeled  about ; and  bringing  his  two  forefingers 
close  to  the  top  of  his  nose,  rubbed  them  over  one  another, 
crosswise,  in  derision,  defiance,  and  contempt  of  Straudenheim. 
Although  Straudenheim  could  not  possibly  be  supposed  to  be 
conscious  of  this  strange  proceeding,  it  so  inflated  and  com- 
forted the  little  warrior’s  soul,  that  twice  he  went  away,  and 
twice  came  back  into  the  court  to  repeat  it,  as  though  it  must 
goad  his  enemy  to  madness.  ISTot  only  that,  but  he  afterwards 
came  back  with  two  other  small  warriors,  and  they  all  three 
did  it  together.  hTot  only  that  — as  I live  to  tell  the  tale  ! — 
but  just  as  it  was  falling  quite  dark,  the  three  came  back, 
bringing  with  them  a huge  bearded  Sapper,  whom  they 
moved,  by  recital  of  the  original  wrong,  to  go  through  the 
same  performance,  with  the  same  complete  absence  of  all 
possible  knowledge  of  it  on  the  part  of  Straudenheim.  And 
then  they  all  went  away,  arm-in-arm,  singing. 

I went  away  too,  in  the  German  chariot  at  sunrise,  and 
rattled  on,  day  after  day,  like  one  in  a sweet  dream ; with  so 
many  clear  little  bells  on  the  harness  of  the  horses,  that  the 
nursery  rhyme  about  Banbury  Cross  and  the  venerable  lady 
who  rode  in  state  there,  Avas  always  in  my  ears.  And  now  I 
came  to  the  land  of  wooden  houses,  innocent  cakes,  thin  butter 


74 


THE  UNCOMMEBCTAL  TBAVELLER, 


soup,  and  spotless  little  inn  bedrooms  with  a family  likeness 
to  Dairies.  And  now  the  Swiss  marksmen  were  forever  rifle- 
shooting at  marks  across  gorges,  so  exceedingly  near  my  ear, 
that  I felt  like  a new  Gesler  in  a Canton  of  Tells,  and  went 
in  highly  deserved  danger  of  my  tyrannical  life.  The  prizes 
at  these  shootings  were  watches,  smart  handkerchiefs,  hats, 
spoons,  and  (above  all)  tea-trays ; and  at  these  contests  I 
came  upon  a more  than  usually  accomplished  and  amiable 
countryman  of  my  own,  who  had  shot  himself  deaf  in  whole 
years  of  competition,  and  had  won  so  many  tea-trays  that  he 
went  about  the  country  with  his  carriage  full  of  them  like  a 
glorified  Cheap  Jack. 

In  the  mountain  country  into  which  I had  now  travelled,  a 
yoke  of  oxen  were  sometimes  hooked  on  before  the  post- 
horses,  and  I went  lumbering  up,  up,  up,  through  mist  and 
rain,  with  the  roar  of  falling  water  for  change  of  music. 
Of  a sudden,  mist  and  rain  would  clear  away,  and  I would 
come  down  into  picturesque  little  towns  with  gleaming  spires 
and  odd  towers ; and  would  stroll  afoot  into  market-places  in 
steep  winding  streets,  where  a hundred  women  in  bodices, 
sold  eggs  and  honey,  butter  and  fruit,  and  suckled  their  chil- 
dren as  they  sat  by  their  clean  baskets,  and  had  such  enormous 
goitres  (or  glandular  swellings  in  the  throat)  that  it  became  a 
science  to  know  where  the  nurse  ended  and  the  child  began. 
About  this  time  I deserted  my  German  chariot  for  the  back 
of  a mule  (in  color  and  consistency  so  very  like  a dusty  old 
hair  trunk  I once  had  at  school,  that  I half  expected  to  see 
my  initials  in  brass-headed  nails  on  his  backbone),  and  went 
up  a thousand  rugged  ways,  and  looked  down  at  a thousand 
woods  of  fir  and  pine,  and  would  on  the  whole  have  preferred 
my  mule’s  keeping  a little  nearer  to  the  inside,  and  not  usually 
travelling  with  a hoof  or  two  over  the  precipice  — though 
much  consoled  by  explanation  that  this  was  to  be  attributed 
to  his  great  sagacity,  by  reason  of  his  carrying  broad  loads  of 
wood  at  other  times,  and  not  being  clear  but  that  I myself 
belonged  to  that  station  of  life,  and  required  as  much  room  as 
they.  He  brought  me  safely,  in  his  own  wise  way,  among 
the  passes  of  the  Alps,  and  here  I enjoyed  a dozen  climates  a 
day  3 being  now  (like  Don  Quixote  pn  the  back  of  the  wooden 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


75 


horse)  in  the  region  of  wind,  now  in  the  region  of  fire,  now  in 
the  region  of  unmelting  ice  and  snow.  Here,  I passed  over 
trembling  domes  of  ice,  beneath  which  the  cataract  was  roar- 
ing; and  here  was  received  under  arches  of  icicles,  of  un- 
speakable beauty ; and  here  the  sweet  air  was  so  bracing  and 
so  light,  that  at  halting-times  I rolled  in  the  snow  when  I saw 
my  mule  do  it,  thinking  that  he  must  know  best.  At  this 
part  of  the  journey  we  would  come,  at  midday,  into  half  an 
hour’s  thaw : when  the  rough  mountain  inn  would  be  found 
on  an  island  of  deep  mud  in  a sea  of  snow,  while  the  baiting 
strings  of  mules,  and  the  carts  full  of  casks  and  bales,  which 
had  been  in  an  Arctic  condition  a mile  off,  would  steam  again. 
By  such  ways  and  means,  I would  come  to  the  cluster  of 
chalets  where  I had  to  turn  out  of  the  track  to  see  the  water- 
fall ; and  then,  uttering  a howl  like  a young  giant,  on  espying 
a traveller  — in  other  words,  something  to  eat  — coming  up 
the  steep,  the  idiot  lying  on  the  woodpile  who  sunned  himself 
and  nursed  his  goitre,  would  rouse  the  woman-guide  within 
the  hut,  who  would  stream  out  hastily,  throwing  her  child 
over  one  of  her  shoulders  and  her  goitre  over  the  other  as  she 
came  along.  I slept  at  religious  houses,  and  bleak  refuges  of 
many  kinds,  on  this  journey,  and  by  the  stove  at  night  heard 
stories  of  travellers  who  had  perished  within  call,  in  wreaths 
and  drifts  of  snow.  One  night  the  stove  within,  and  the  cold 
outside,  awakened  childish  associations  long  forgotten,  and  I 
dreamed  I was  in  Kussia  — the  identical  serf  out  of  a picture- 
book  I had,  before  I could  read  it  for  myself  — and  that  I was 
going  to  be  knouted  by  a noble  personage  in  a fur  cap,  boots, 
and  earrings,  who,  I think,  must  have  come  out  of  some  melo- 
drama. 

Commend  me  to  the  beautiful  waters  among  these  moun- 
tains ! Though  I was  not  of  their  mind : they,  being  invet- 
erately  bent  on  getting  down  into  the  level  country,  and  I 
ardently  desiring  to  linger  where  I was.  What  desperate 
leaps  they  took,  what  dark  abysses  they  plunged  into,  what 
rocks  they  wore  away,  what  echoes  they  invoked ! In  one 
part  where  I went,  they  were  pressed  into  the  service  of 
carrying  wood  down,  to  be  burnt  next  winter,  as  costly  fuel, 
in  Italy.  But,  their  fierce  savage  nature  was  not  to  be  easily 


76 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


constrained,  and  they  fought  with  every  limb  of  the  wood ; 
whirling  it  round  and  round,  stripping  its  bark  away,  dashing 
it  against  pointed  corners,  driving  it  out  of  the  course,  and 
roaring  and  flying  at  the  peasants  who  steered  it  back  again 
from  the  bank  with  long  stout  poles.  Alas ! concurrent 
streams  of  time  and  water  carried  me  down  fast,  and  I came, 
on  an  exquisitely  clear  day,  to  the  Lausanne  shore  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva,  where  I stood  looking  at  the  bright  blue 
water,  the  flushed  white  mountains  opposite,  and  the  boats  at 
my  feet  with  their  furled  Mediterranean  sails,  showing  like 
enormous  magnifications  of  this  goose-quill  pen  that  is  now 
in  my  hand. 

— The  sky  became  overcast  without  any  notice ; a wind 
very  like  the  March  east  wind  of  England,  blew  across  me ; 
and  a voice  said,  How  do  you  like  it  ? Will  it  do  ? 

I had  merely  shut  myself,  for  half  a minute,  in  a German 
travelling  chariot  that  stood  for  sale  in  the  Carriage  Depart- 
ment of  the  London  Pantechnicon.  I had  a commission  to 
buy  it,  for  a friend  who  was  going  abroad ; and  the  look  and 
manner  of  the  chariot,  as  I tried  the  cushions  and  the  springs, 
brought  all  these  hints  of  travelling  remembrance  before  me. 

It  will  do  very  well,’^  said  I,  rather  sorrowfully,  as  I got 
out  at  the  other  door,  and  shut  the  carriage  up. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


77 


VIII. 

THE  GREAT  TASMANIANS  CARGO. 

I TRAVEL  constantly  up  and  down  a certain  line  of  railway 
that  has  a terminus  in  London.  It  is  the  railway  for  a large 
military  depot,  and  for  other  large  barracks.  To  the  best  of 
my  serious  belief,  I have  never  been  on  that  railway  by  day- 
light, without  seeing  some  handcuffed  deserters  in  the  train. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  such  an  institution  as  our 
English  army  should  have  many  bad  and  troublesome  charac- 
ters in  it.  But,  this  is  a reason  for,  and  not  against,  its  being 
made  as  acceptable  as  possible  to  well-disposed  men  of  decent 
behavior.  Such  men  are  assuredly  not  tempted  into  the 
ranks,  by  the  beastly  inversion  of  natural  laws,  and  the  com- 
pulsion to  live  in  worse  than  swinish  foulness.  Accordingly, 
when  any  such  Circumlocutional  embellishments  of  the  sol- 
dier’s condition  have  of  late  been  brought  to  notice,  we 
civilians,  seated  in  outer  darkness  cheerfully  meditating  on 
an  Income  Tax,  have  considered  the  matter  as  being  our  busi- 
ness, and  have  shown  a tendency  to  declare  that  we  would 
rather  not  have  it  misregulated,  if  such  declaration  may, 
without  violence  to  the  Church  Catechism,  be  hinted  to  those 
who  are  put  in  authority  over  us. 

Any  animated  description  of  a modern  battle,  any  private 
soldier’s  letter  published  in  the  newspapers,  any  page  of  the 
records  of  the  Victoria  Cross,  will  show  that  in  the  ranks 
of  the  army,  there  exists  under  all  disadvantages  as  fine  a 
sense  of  duty  as  is  to  be  found  in  any  station  on  earth.  Who 
doubts  that  if  we  all  did  our  duty  as  faithfully  as  the  soldier 
does  his,  this  world  would  be  a better  place  ? There  may 
be  greater  difficulties  in  our  way  than  in  the  soldier’s.  Not 
disputed.  But,  let  us  at  least  do  our  duty  towards  him, 

I had  got  back  again  to  that  rich  and  beautiful  port  where 
I had  looked  after  Mercantile  Jack,  and  I was  walking  up  a 


78 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


hill  there,  on  a wild  March  morning.  My  conversation  with 
my  official  friend  Pangloss,  by  whom  I was  accidentally 
accompanied,  took  this  direction  as  we  took  the  np-hill  direc- 
tion, because  the  object  of  my  uncommercial  journey  was  to 
see  some  discharged  soldiers  who  had  recently  come  home 
from  India.  There  were  men  of  Havelock’s  among  them ; 
there  were  men  who  had  been  in  many  of  the  great  battles  of 
the  great  Indian  campaign,  among  them ; and  I was  curious 
to  note  what  our  discharged  soldiers  looked  like,  when  they 
were  done  with. 

I was  not  the  less  interested  (as  I mentioned  to  my  official 
friend  Pangloss)  because  these  men  had  claimed  to  be  dis- 
charged, when  their  right  to  be  discharged  was  not  admitted. 
They  had  behaved  with  unblemished  fidelity  and  bravery ; 
but,  a change  of  circumstances  had  arisen,  which,  as  they 
considered,  put  an  end  to  their  compact  and  entitled  them  to 
enter  on  a new  one.  Their  demand  had  been  blunderingly 
resisted  by  the  authorities  in  India ; but,  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that  the  men  were  not  far  wrong,  inasmuch  as  the  bungle  had 
ended  in  their  being  sent  home  discharged,  in  pursuance  of 
orders  from  home.  (There  was  an  immense  waste  of  money, 
of  course.) 

Under  these  circumstances  — thought  I,  as  I walked  up  the 
hi^l,  on  which  I accidentally  encountered  my  official  friend 
— under  these  circumstances  of  the  men  having  successfully 
opposed  themselves  to  the  Pagoda  Department  of  that  great 
Circumlocution  Office  on  which  the  sun  never  sets  and  the 
light  of  reason  never  rises,  the  Pagoda  Department  will  have 
been  particularly  careful  of  the  national  honor.  It  will  have 
shown  these  men,  in  the  scrupulous  good  faith,  not  to  say 
the  generosity,  of  its  dealing  with  them,  that  great  national 
authorities  can  have  no  small  retaliations  and  revenges.  It 
will  have  made  every  provision  for  their  health  on  the  pas- 
sage home,  and  will  have  landed  them,  restored  from  their 
campaigning  fatigues  by  a sea-voyage,  pure  air,  sound  food, 
and  good  medicines.  And  I pleased  myself  with  dwelling 
beforehand,  on  the  great  accounts  of  their  personal  treatment 
which  these  men  would  carry  into  their  various  towns  and 
villages,  and  on  the  increasing  popularity  of  the  service  that 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


79 


would  insensibly  follow.  I almost  began  to  hope  that  the 
hitherto-never-failing  deserters  on  my  railroad  would  by  and 
by  become  a phenomenon. 

In  this  agreeable  frame  of  mind  I entered  the  workhouse 
of  Liverpool.  — For,  the  cultivation  of  laurels  in  a sandy  soil, 
had  brought  the  soldiers  in  question  to  that  abode  of  Glory. 

Before  going  into  their  wards  to  visit  them,  I inquired  how 
they  had  made  their  triumphant  entry  there  ? They  had 
been  brought  through  the  rain  in  carts,  it  seemed,  from  the 
landing-place  to  the  gate,  and  had  then  been  carried  up-stairs 
on  the  backs  of  paupers.  Their  groans  and  pains  during  the 
performance  of  this  glorious  pageant,  had  been  so  distressing, 
as  to  bring  tears  into  the  eyes  of  spectators  but  too  well 
accustomed  to  scenes  of  suffering.  The  men  were  so  dread- 
fully cold,  that  those  who  could  get  near  the  fires  were  hard 
to  be  restrained  from  thrusting  their  feet  in  among  the  blaz- 
ing coals.  They  were  so  horribly  reduced,  that  they  were 
awful  to  look  upon.  Backed  with  dysentery  and  blackened 
with  scurvy,  one  hundred  and  forty  wretched  soldiers  had 
been  revived  with  brandy  and  laid  in  bed. 

My  official  friend  Pangloss  is  lineally  descended  from  a 
learned  doctor  of  that  name,  who  was  once  tutor  to  Candide, 
an  ingenious  young  gentleman  of  some  celebrity.  In  his 
personal  character,  he  is  as  humane  and  worthy  a gentleman 
as  any  I know ; in  his  official  capacity,  he  unfortunately 
preaches  the  doctrines  of  his  renowned  ancestor,  by  demon- 
strating on  all  occasions  that  we  live  in  the  best  of  all  possi- 
ble official  worlds. 

^^In  the  name  of  Humanity,’’  said  I,  ^^how  did  the  men 
fall  into  this  deplorable  state  ? Was  the  ship  well  found  in 
stores  ? ” 

I am  not  here  to  asseverate  that  I know  the  fact,  of  my 
own  knowledge,”  answered  Pangloss,  ^^but  I have  grounds 
for  asserting  that  the  stores  were  the  best  of  all  possible 
stores.” 

A medical  officer  laid  before  us  a handful  of  rotten  biscuit, 
and  a handful  of  split  pease.  The  biscuit  was  a honeycombed 
heap  of  maggots,  and  the  excrement  of  maggots.  The  pease 
were  even  harder  than  this  filth.  A similar  handful  had  been 


80 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


experimentally  boiled  six  hours,  and  had  shown  no  signs  of 
softening.  These  were  the  stores  on  which  the  soldiers  had 
been  fed.  , 

The  beef  — I began,  when  Pangloss  cut  me  short. 

Was  the  best  of  all  possible  beef,^’  said  he. 

But,  behold,  there  was  laid  before  us.  certain  evidence  given 
at  the  Coroner’s  Inquest,  holden  on  some  of  the  men  (who 
had  obstinately  died  of  their  treatment),  and  from  that  evi- 
dence it  appeared  that  the  beef  was  the  worst  of  possible 
beef ! 

^^Then  I lay  my  hand  upon  my  heart,  and  take  my  stand,” 
said  Pangloss,  by  the  pork,  which  was  the  best  of  all  pos- 
sible pork.” 

But  look  at  this  food  before  our  eyes,  if  one  may  so 
misuse  the  word,”  said  1.  Would  any  Inspector  who  did 
his  duty,  pass  such  abomination  ? ” 

It  ought  not  to  have  been  passed,”  Pangloss  admitted. 

^‘Then  the  authorities  out  there”  — I began,  when  Pan- 
gloss cut  me  short  again. 

There  would  certainly  seem  to  have  been  something  wrong 
somewhere,”  said  he ; but  I am  prepared  to  prove  that  the 
authorities  out  there,  are  the  best  of  all  possible  authorities.” 

I never  heard  of  any  impeached  public  authority  in  my 
life,  who  was  not  the  best  public  authority  in  existence. 

We  are  told  of  these  unfortunate  men  being  laid  low  by 
scurvy,”  said  I.  Since  lime-juice  has  been  regularly  stored 
and  served  out  in  our  navy,  surely  that  disease,  which  used 
to  devastate  it,  has  almost  disappeared  ? Was  there  lime- 
juice  aboard  this  transport  ? ” 

My  official  friend  was  beginning  ^^the  best  of  all  pos- 
sible ” — when  an  inconvenient  medical  forefinger  pointed 
out  another  passage  in  the  evidence,  from  which  it  appeared 
that  the  lime-juice  had  been  bad  too.  Not  to  mention  that  the 
vinegar  had  been  bad  too,  the  vegetables  bad  too,  the  cooking 
accommodation  insufficient  (if  there  had  been  anything  worth 
mentioning  to  cook),  the  water  supply  exceedingly  inade- 
quate, and  the  beer  sour. 

Then  the  men,”  said  Pangloss,  a little  irritated,  were 
the  worst  of  all  possible  men.” 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


81 


In  what  respect  ? I asked. 

Oh ! Habitual  drunkards/^  said  Pangloss. 

But,  again  the  same  incorrigible  medical  forefinger  pointed 
out  another  passage  in  the  evidence,  showing  that  the  dead 
men  had  been  examined  after  death,  and  that  they,  at  least, 
could  not  possibly  have  been  habitual  drunkards,  because  the 
organs  within  them  which  must  have  shown  traces  of  that 
habit,  were  perfectly  sound. 

And  besides,’’  said  the  three  doctors  present,  one  and  all, 
habitual  drunkards  brought  as  low  as  these  men  have  been, 
could  not  recover  under  care  and  food,  as  the  great  majority 
of  these  men  are  recovering.  They  would  not  have  strength 
of  constitution  to  do  it.” 

Eeckless  and  improvident  dogs,  then,”  said  Pangloss. 
Always  are  — nine  times  out  of  ten.” 

I turned  to  the  master  of  the  workhouse,  and  asked  him 
whether  the  men  had  any  money  ? 

Money  ? ” said  he.  I have  in  my  iron  safe,  nearly  four 
hundred  pounds  of  theirs ; the  agents  have  nearly  a hundred 
pounds  more  ; and  many  of  them  have  left  money  in  Indian 
banks  besides.” 

Hah  ! ” said  I to  myself,  as  we  went  up-stairs,  this  is 
not  the  best  of  all  possible  stories,  I doubt ! ” 

We  went  into  a large  ward,  containing  some  twenty  or  five 
and  twenty  beds.  We  went  into  several  such  wards,  one  after 
another.  I find  it  very  difficult  to  indicate  what  a shocking 
sight  I saw  in  them,  without  frightening  the  reader  from  the 
perusal  of  these  lines,  and  defeating  my  object  of  making  it 
known. 

0 the  sunken  eyes  that  turned  to  me  as  I walked  between 
the  rows  of  beds,  or  — worse  still  — that  glazedly  looked  at 
the  white  ceiling,  and  saw  nothing  and  cared  for  nothing. 
Here  lay  the  skeleton  of  a man,  so  lightly  covered  wfith  a 
thin  unwholesome  skin,  that  not  a bone  in  the  anatomy  was 
clothed,  and  I could  clasp  the  arm  above  the  elbow,  in  my 
finger  and  thumb.  Here,  lay  a man  with  the  black  scurvy 
eating  his  legs  away,  his  gums  gone,  and  his  teeth  all  gaunt 
and  bare.  This  bed  was  enitpy,  because  gangrene  had  set  in, 
and  the  patient  had  died  but  yesterday.  That  bed  was  a 


82 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


hopeless  one,  because  its  occupant  was  sinking  fast,  and  could 
only  be  roused  to  turn  the  poor  pinched  mask  of  face  upon 
the  pillow,  with  a feeble  moan.  The  awful  thinness  of  the 
fallen  cheeks  the  awful  brightness  of  the  deep  set  eyes,  the 
lips  of  lead,  the  hands  of  ivory,  the  recumbent  human  images 
lying  in  the  shadow  of  death  with  a kind  of  solemn  twilight  on 
them,  like  the  sixty  who  had  died  aboard  the  ship  and  were 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  0 Pangloss,  God  forgive  you ! 

In  one  bed,  lay  a man  whose  life  had  been  saved  (as  it  was 
hoped)  by  deep  incisions  in  the  feet  and  legs.  While  I was 
speaking  to  him,  a nurse  came  up  to  change  the  poultices 
which  this  operation  had  rendered  necessary,  and  I had  an 
instinctive  feeling  that  it  was  not  well  to  turn  away,  merely 
to  spare  myself.  He  was  sorely  wasted  and  keenly  susceptible, 
but  the  efforts  he  made  to  subdue  any  expression  of  im- 
patience or  suffering,  were  quite  heroic.  It  was  easy  to  see, 
in  the  shrinking  of  the  figure,  and  the  drawing  of  the  bed- 
clothes over  the  head,  how  acute  the  endurance  was,  and  it 
made  me  shrink  too,  as  if  I were  in  pain ; but,  when  the  new 
bandages  were  on,  and  the  poor  feet  were  composed  again, 
he  made  an  apology  for  himself  (though  he  had  not  uttered  a 
word),  and  said  plaintively,  I am  so  tender  and  weak,  you 
see,  sir ! ’’  Neither  from  him  nor  from  any  one  sufferer  of 
the  whole  ghastly  number,  did  I hear  a complaint.  Of  thank- 
fulness for  present  solicitude  and  care,  I heard  much ; of 
complaint,  not  a word. 

I think  I could  have  recognized  in  the  dismalest  skeleton 
there,  the  ghost  of  a soldier.  Something  of  the  old  air  was 
still  latent  in  the  palest  shadow  of  life  I talked  to.  One 
emaciated  creature,  in  the  strictest  literality  worn  to  the  bone, 
lay  stretched  on  his  back,  looking  so  like  death  that  I asked 
one  of  the  doctors  if  he  were  not  dying,  or  dead  ? A few 
kind  words  from  the  doctor,  in  his  ear,  and  he  opened  his 
eyes,  and  smiled  — looked,  in  a moment,  as  if  he  would  have 
made  a salute,  if  he  could.  We  shall  pull  him  through, 
please  God,’’  said  the  Doctor.  Plase  God,  surr,  and  thankye,” 
said  the  patient.  You  are  much  better  to-day ; are  you 
not  ? ” said  the  Doctor.  Plase  God,  surr ; ’tis  the  slape  I 
want,  surr;  ’tis  my  breathin’  makes  the  nights  so  long.” 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER, 


83 


— is  a careful  fellow  this,  you  must  know/’  said  the 
Doctor  cheerfully  ; it  was  raining  hard  when  they  put  him 
in  the  open  cart  to  bring  him  here,  and  he  had  the  presence 
of  mind  to  ask  to  have  a sovereign  taken  out  of  his  pocket 
that  he  had  there,  and  a cab  engaged.  Probably  it  saved  his 
life.”  The  patient  rattled  out  the  skeleton  of  a laugh,  and 
said,  proud  of  the  story,  ’Deed,  surr,  an  open  cairt  was  a 
comical  means  o’  bringin’  a dyin’  man  here,  and  a clever  way 
to  kill  him.”  You  might  have  sworn  to  him  for  a soldier 
when  he  said  it. 

One  thing  had  perplexed  me  very  much  in  going  from  bed 
to  bed.  A very  significant  and  cruel  thing.  I could  find  no 
young  man  but  one.  He  had  attracted  my  notice,  by  having 
got  up  and  dressed  himself  in  his  soldier’s  jacket  and  trousers, 
with  the  intention  of  sitting  by  the  fire ; but  he  had  found 
himself  too  weak,  and  had  crept  back  to  his  bed  and  laid 
himself  down  on  the  outside  of  it.  I could  have  pronounced 
him,  alone,  to  be  a young  man  aged  by  famine  and  sickness. 
As  we  were  standing  by  the  Irish  soldier’s  bed,  I mentioned 
my  perplexity  to  the  Doctor.  He  took  a board  with  an  in- 
scription on  it  from  the  head  of  the  Irishman’s  bed,  and 
asked  me  what  age  I supposed  that  man  to  be  ? I had  ob- 
served him  with  attention  while  talking  to  him,  and  answered, 
confidently,  Fifty.”  The  Doctor,  with  a pitying  glance  at 
the  patient,  who  had  dropped  into  a stupor  again,  put  the 
board  back,  and  said,  Twenty-four.” 

All  the  arrangements  of  the  wards  were  excellent.  They 
could  not  have  been  more  humane,  sympathizing,  gentle, 
attentive,  or  wholesome.  The  owners  of  the  ship,  too,  had 
done  all  they  could,  liberally.  There  were  bright  fires  in 
every  room,  and  the  convalescent  men  were  sitting  round 
them,  reading  various  papers  and  periodicals.  I took  the 
liberty  of  inviting  my  official  friend  Pangloss  to  look  at  those 
convalescent  men,  and  to  tell  me  whether  their  faces  and 
bearing  were  or  were  not,  generally,  the  faces  and  bearing 
of  steady  respectable  soldiers  ? The  master  of  the  workhouse, 
overhearing  me,  said  he  had  had  a pretty  large  experience  of 
troops,  and  that  better  conducted  men  than  these,  he  had 
never  had  to  do  with.  They  were  always  (he  added)  as  we 


84 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TBAVELLER, 


saw  them.  And  of  ns  visitors  (I  add)  they  knew  nothing 
whatever,  except  that  we  were  there. 

It  was  audacious  in  me,  but  I took  another  liberty  with 
Pangloss.  Prefacing  it  with  the  observation  that,  of  course, 
I knew  beforehand  that  there  was  not  the  faintest  desire, 
anywhere,  to  hush  up  any  part  of  this  dreadful  business,  and 
that  the  Inquest  was  the  fairest  of  all  possible  Inquests,  I 
besought  four  things  of  Pangloss.  Firstly,  to  observe  that 
the  Inquest  was  not  held  in  that  place,  but  at  some  distance 
off.  Secondly,  to  look  round  upon  those  helpless  spectres  in 
their  beds.  Thirdly,  to  remember  that  the  witnesses  pro- 
duced from  among  them  before  that  Inquest  could  not  have 
been  selected  because  they  were  the  men  who  had  the  most  to 
tell  it,  but  because  they  happened  to  be  in  a state  admitting 
of  their  safe  removal.  Fourthly,  to  say  whether  the  coroner 
and  Jury  could  have  come  there,  to  those  pillows,  and.  taken 
a little  evidence  ? My  official  friend  declined  to  commit 
himself  to  a reply. 

There  was  a sergeant,  reading,  in  one  of  the  fireside  groups. 
As  he  was  a man  of  very  intelligent  countenance,  and  as  I 
have  a great  respect  for  non-commissioned  officers  as  a class, 
I sat  down  on  the  nearest  bed,  to  have  some  talk  with  him. 
(It  was  the  bed  of  one  of  the  grisliest  of  the  poor  skeletons, 
and  he  died  soon  afterwards.) 

^^I  was  glad  to  see,  in  the  evidence  of  an  officer  at  the 
Inquest,  sergeant,  that  he  never  saw  men  behave  better  on 
board  ship  than  these  men.’’ 

They  did  behave  very  well,  sir.” 

‘^1  was  glad  to  see,  too,  that  every  man  had  a hammock.” 

The  sergeant  gravely  shook  his  head.  There  must  be 
some  mistake,  sir.  The  men  of  my  own  mess  had  no  ham- 
mocks. There  were  not  hammocks  enough  on  board,  and  the 
men  of  the  two  next  messes  laid  hold  of  hammocks  for  them- 
selves as  soon  as  they  got  on  board,  and  squeezed  my  men 
out,  as  I may  say.” 

Had  the  squeezed-out  men  none  then  ? ” 

^^ISTone,  sir.  As  men  died,  their  hammocks  were  used  by 
other  men,  who  wanted  hammocks ; but  many  men  had  none 
at  all.” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


85 


Then  you  don’t  agree  with  the  evidence  on  that  point  ? ” 

Certainly  not,  sir.  A man  can’t,  when  he  knows  to  the 
contrary.” 

Did  any  of  the  men  sell  their  bedding  for  drink  ? ” 

There  is  some  mistake  on  that  point  too,  sir.  Men  were 
under  the  impression  — I knew  it  for  a fact  at  the  time  — that 
it  was  not  allowed  to  take  blankets  or  bedding  on  board,  and 
so  men  who  had  things  of  that  sort  came  to  sell  them  pur- 
posely.” 

Did  any  of  the  men  sell  their  clothes  for  drink  ? ” 

They  did,  sir.”  (I  believe  there  never  was  a more  truth- 
ful witness  than  the  sergeant.  He  had  no  inclination  to  make 
out  a case.) 

Many  ? ” 

Some,  sir  ” (considering  the  question).  Soldier-like. 
They  had  been  long  marching  in  the  rainy  season,  by  bad 
roads  — no  roads  at  all,  in  short  — and  when  they  got  to  Cal- 
cutta, men  turned  to  and  drank,  before  taking  a last  look  at 
it.  Soldier-like.” 

Do  you  see  any  men  in  this  ward,  for  example,  who  sold 
clothes  for  drink  at  that  time  ? ” 

The  sergeant’s  wan  eye,  happily  just  beginning  to  rekindle 
with  health,  travelled  round  the  place  and  came  back  to  me. 
Certainly,  sir.” 

The  marching  to  Calcutta  in  the  rainy  season  must  have 
been  severe  ? ” 

It  was  very  severe,  sir.” 

^^Yet  what  with  the  rest  and  the  sea  air,  I should  have 
thought  that  the  men  (even  the  men  who  got  drunk)  would 
have  soon  begun  to  recover  on  board  ship  ? ” 

So  they  might ; but  the  bad  food  told  upon  them,  and 
when  we  got  into  a cold  latitude,  it  began  to  tell  more,  and 
the  men  dropped.” 

The  sick  had  a general  disinclination  for  food,  I am  told, 
sergeant  ? ” 

Have  you  seen  the  food,  sir  ? ” 

Some  of  it.” 

Have  you  seen  the  state  of  their  mouths,  sir  ? ” 

If  the  sergeant,  who  was  a man  of  a few  orderly  words,  had 


86 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


spoken  the  amount  of  this  volume,  he  could  not  have  settled 
that  question  better.  I believe  the  sick  could  as  soon  have 
eaten  the  ship,  as  the  ship’s  provisions. 

I took  the  additional  liberty  with  my  friend  Pangloss,  when 
I had  left  the  sergeant  with  good  wishes,  of  asking  Pangloss 
whether  he  had  ever  heard  of  biscuit  getting  drunk  and 
bartering  its  nutritious  qualities  for  putrefaction  and  vermin ; 
of  pease  becoming  hardened  in  liquor ; of  hammocks  drinking 
themselves  off  the  face  of  the  earth;  of  lime-juice,  vegetables, 
vinegar,  cooking  accommodation,  water  supply,  and  beer,  all 
taking  to  drinking  together  and  going  to  ruin  ? If  not  (I 
asked  him),  what  did  he  say  in  defence  of  the  officers  con- 
demned by  the  Coroner’s  Jury,  who,  by  signing  the  General 
Inspection  report  relative  to  the  ship  Great  Tasmania,  char- 
tered for  these  troops,  had  deliberately  asserted  all  that  bad 
and  poisonous  dung-hill  refuse,  to  be  good  and  wholesome 
food  ? ” My  official  friend  replied  that  it  was  a remarkable 
fact,  that  whereas  some  officers  were  only  positively  good,  and 
other  officers  only  comparatively  better,  those  particular 
officers  were  superlatively  the  very  best  of  all  possible  officers. 

My  hand  and  my  heart  fail  me,  in  writing  my  record  of  this 
journey.  The  spectacle  of  the  soldiers  in  the  hospital-beds  of 
that  Liverpool  workhouse  (a  very  good  workhouse,  indeed,  be 
it  understood),  was  so  shocking  and  so  shameful,  that  as  an 
Englishman  I blush  to  remember  it.  It  would  have  been 
simply  unbearable  at  the  time,  but  for  the  consideration  and 
pity  with  which  they  were  soothed  in  their  sufferings. 

No  punishment  that  our  inefficient  laws  provide,  is  worthy 
of  the  name  when  set  against  the  guilt  of  this  transaction. 
But,  if  the  memory  of  it  die  out  unavenged,  and  if  it  do  not 
result  in  the  inexorable  dismissal  and  disgrace  of  those  who 
are  responsible  for  it,  their  escape  will  be  infamous  to  the 
Government  (no  matter  of  what  party)  that  so  neglects  its 
duty,  and  infamous  to  the  nation  that  tamely  suffers  such 
intolerable  wrong  to  be  done  in  its  name. 


THE  UNCOMMEliCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


87 


IX. 

CITY  OF  LONDON  CHUKCHES. 

If  the  confession  that  I have  often  travelled  from  this 
Covent  Garden  lodging  of  mine  on  Sundays,  should  give 
offence  to  those  who  never  travel  on  Sundays,  they  will  be 
satisfied  (I  hope)  by  my  adding  that  the  journeys  in  question 
were  made  to  churches. 

Not  that  I have  any  curiosity  to  hear  powerful  preachers. 
Time  was,  when  I was  dragged  by  the  hair  of  my  head,  as  one 
may  say,  to  hear  too  many.  On  summer  evenings,  when  every 
flower,  and  tree,  and  bird,  might  have  better  addressed  my 
soft  young  heart,  I have  in  my  day  been  caught  in  the  palm 
of  a female  hand  by  the  crown,  have  been  violently  scrubbed 
from  the  neck  to  the  roots  of  the  hair  as  a purification  for  the 
Temple,  and  have  then  been  carried  off  highly  charged  with 
saponaceous  electricity,  to  be  steamed  like  a potato  in  the  un- 
ventilated breath  of  the  powerful  Boanerges  Boiler  and  his 
congregation,  until  what  small  mind  I had,  was  quite  steamed 
out  of  me.  In  which  pitiable  plight  I have  been  hauled  out 
of  the  place  of  meeting,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  exercises, 
and  catechized  respecting  Boanerges  Boiler,  his  fifthly,  his 
sixthly,  and  his  seventhly,  until  I have  regarded  that  reverend 
person  in  the  light  of  a most  dismal  and  oppressive  Charade. 
Time  was,  when  I was  carried  off  to  platform  assemblages  at 
which  no  human  child,  whether  of  wrath  or  grace,  could 
possibly  keep  its  eyes  open,  and  when  I felt  the  fatal  sleep 
stealing,  stealing  over  me,  and  when  I gradually  heard  the 
orator  in  possession,  spinning  and  humming  like  a great  top, 
until  he  rolled,  collapsed,  and  tumbled  over,  and  I discovered 
to  my  burning  shame  and  fear,  that  as  to  that  last  stage  it 
was  not  he,  but  I.  I have  sat  under  Boanerges  when  he  has 
specifically  addressed  himself  to  us  — us,  the  infants  — and  at 
this  present  writing  I hear  his  lumbering  jocularity  (which 


88 


THE  UNC0M3fERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


never  amused  us,  though  we  basely  pretended  that  it  did),  and 
I behold  his  big  round  face,  and  I look  up  the  inside  of  his 
outstretched  coat-sleeve  as  if  it  were  a telescope  with  the 
stopper  on,  and  I hate  him  with  an  unwholesome  hatred  for 
two  hours.  Through  such  means  did  it  come  to  pass  that  I 
knew  the  powerful  preacher  from  beginning  to  end,  all  over 
and  all  through,  while  I was  very  young,  and  that  I left  him 
behind  at  an  early  period  of  life.  Peace  be  with  him  ! More 
peace  than  he  brought  to  me  ! 

Now,  I have  heard  many  preachers  since  that  time  — not 
powerful;  merely  Christian,  unaffected,  and  reverential  — and 
I have  had  many  such  preachers  on  my  roll  of  friends.  But, 
it  was  not  to  hear  these,  any  more  than  the  powerful  class, 
that  I made  my  Sunday  journeys.  They  were  journeys  of 
curiosity  to  the  numerous  churches  in  the  City  of  London. 
It  came  into  my  head  one  day,  here  had  I been  cultivating  a 
familiarity  with  all  the  churches  of  Eome,  and  I knew  nothing 
of  the  insides  of  the  old  churches  of  London ! This  befell  on 
a Sunday  morning.  I began  my  expeditions  that  very  same 
day,  and  they  lasted  me  a year. 

I never  wanted  to  know  the  names  of  the  churches  to  which 
I went,  and  to  this  hour  I am  profoundly  ignorant  in  that 
particular  of  at  least  nine-tenths  of  them.  Indeed,  saving  that 
I know  the  church  of  old  Gower’s  tomb  (he  lies  in  effigy  with 
his  head  upon  his  books)  to  be  the  church  of  Saint  Saviour’s, 
Southwark;  and  the  church  of  Milton’s  tomb  to  be  the 
church  of  Cripplegate ; and  the  church  on  Cornhill  with  the 
great  golden  keys  to  be  the  church  of  Saint  Peter ; I doubt  if 
I could  pass  a competitive  examination  in  any  of  the  names. 
No  question  did  I ever  ask  of  living  creature  concerning  these 
churches,  and  no  answer  to  any  antiquarian  question  on  the 
subject  that  I ever  put  to  books,  shall  harass  the  reader’s 
soul.  A full  half  of  my  pleasure  in  them  arose  out  of  their 
mystery ; mysterious  I found  them ; mysterious  they  shall 
remain  for  me. 

Where  shall  I begin  my  round  of  hidden  and  forgotten  old 
churches  in  the  City  of  London  ? 

It  is  twenty  minutes  short  of  eleven  on  a Sunday  morning, 
when  I stroll  down  one  of  the  many  narrow  hilly  streets 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


89 


in  the  City  that  tend  due  south  to  the  Thames.  It  is  my  first 
experiment,  and  I have  come  to  the  region  of  Whittington 
in  an  omnibus,  and  we  have  put  down  a fierce-eyed  spare  old 
woman,  whose  slate-colored  gown  smells  of  herbs,  and  who 
walked  up  Aldersgate  Street  to  some  chapel  where  she  com- 
forts herself  with  brimstone  doctrine,  I warrant.  We  have 
also  put  down  a stouter  and  sweeter  old  lady,  with  a pretty 
large  prayer-book  in  an  unfolded  pocket-handkerchief,  who 
got  out  at  a corner  of  a court  near  Stationers’  Hall,  and  who 
I think  must  go  to  church  there,  because  she  is  the  widow  of 
some  deceased  old  Company’s  Beadle.  The  rest  of  our  freight 
were  mere  chance  pleasure-seekers  and  rural  walkers,  and 
went  on  to  the  Blackwall  railway.  So  many  bells  are  ringing, 
when  I stand  undecided  at  a street  corner,  that  every  sheep 
in  the  ecclesiastical  fold  might  be  a bell-wether.  The  dis- 
cordance is  fearful.  My  state  of  indecision  is  referable  to, 
and  about  equally  divisible  among,  four  great  churches,  which 
are  all  within  sight  and  sound,  all  within  the  space  of  a few 
square  yards. 

As  I stand  at  the  street  corner,  I don’t  see  as  many  as  four 
people  at  once  going  to  church,  though  I see  as  many  as  four 
churches  with  their  steeples  clamoring  for  people.  I choose 
my  church,  and  go  up  the  flight  of  steps  to  the  great  entrance 
in  the  tower.  A mouldy  tower  within,  and  like  a neglected 
wash-house.  A rope  comes  through  the  beamed  roof,  and  a 
man  in  the  corner  pulls  it  and  clashes  the  bell  — a whitey- 
brown  man,  whose  clothes  were  once  black  — a man  with  flue 
on  him,  and  cobweb.  He  stares  at  me,  wondering  how  I come 
there,  and  I stare  at  him,  wondering  how  he  comes  there. 
Through  a screen  of  wood  and  glass,  I peep  into  the  dim 
church.  About  twenty  people  are  discernible,  waiting  to  begin. 
Christening  would  seem  to  have  faded  out  of  this  church  long 
ago,  for  the  font  has  the  dust  of  desuetude  thick  upon  it,  and 
its  wooden  cover  (shaped  like  an  old-fashioned  tureen-cover) 
looks  as  if  it  wouldn’t  come  off,  upon  requirement.  I perceive 
the  altar  to  be  rickety  and  the  Commandments  damp.  Enter- 
ing after  this  survey,  I jostle  the  clergyman  in  his  canonicals, 
who  is  entering  too  from  a dark  lane  behind  a pew  of  state 
with  curtains,  where  nobody  sits.  The  pew  is  ornamented 


90 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


with  four  blue  wands,  once  carried  by  four  somebody’s,  I sup- 
pose, before  somebody  else,  but  which  there  is  nobody  now  to 
hold  or  receive  honor  from.  I open  the  door  of  a family  pew, 
and  shut  myself  in ; if  I could  occupy  twenty  family  pews  at 
once  I might  have  them.  The  clerk,  a brisk  young  man  (how 
does  he  come  here  ?),  glances  at  me  knowingly,  as  who  should 
say,  ^^You  have  done  it  now;  you  must  stop.”  Organ  plays. 
Organ-loft  is  in  a small  gallery  across  the  church  ; gallery  con- 
gregation, two  girls.  I wonder  within  myself  what  will  happen 
when  we  are  required  to  sing. 

There  is  a pale  heap  of  books  in  the  corner  of  my  pew,  and 
while  the  organ,  which  is  hoarse  and  sleepy,  plays  in  such 
fashion  that  I can  hear  more  of  the  rusty  working  of  the  stops 
than  of  any  music,  I look  at  the  books,  which  are  mostly 
bound  in  faded  baize  and  stuff.  They  belonged  in  1754,  to 
the  Dowgate  family;  and  who  were  they?  Jane  Comport 
must  have  married  Young  Dowgate,  and  come  into  the  family 
that  way ; Young  Dowgate  was  courting  Jane  Comport  when 
he  gave  her  her  prayer-book,  and  recorded  the  presentation  in 
the  fly-leaf;  if  Jane  were  fond  of  Young  Dowgate,  why  did 
she  die  and  leave  the  book  here  ? Perhaps  at  the  rickety 
altar,  and  before  the  damp  Commandments,  she.  Comport,  had 
taken  him,  Dowgate,  in  a flush  of  youthful  hope  and  joy,  and 
perhaps  it  had  not  turned  out  in  the  long  run  as  great  a 
success  as  was  expected  ? 

The  opening  of  the  service  recalls  my  wandering  thoughts. 
I then  find,  to  my  astonishment,  that  I have  been,  and  still 
am,  taking  a strong  kind  of  invisible  snuff,  up  my  nose,  into 
my  eyes,  and  down  my  throat.  I wink,  sneeze,  and  cough. 
The  clerk  sneezes ; the  clergyman  winks  ; the  unseen  organist 
sneezes  and  coughs  (and  probably  winks)  ; all  our  little  party 
wink,  sneeze,  and  cough.  The  snuff  seems  to  be  made  of 
the  decay  of  matting,  wood,  cloth,  stone,  iron,  earth,  and 
something  else.  Is  the  something  else,  the  decay  of  dead 
citizens  in  the  vaults  below  ? As  sure  as  Death  it  is  ! Not 
only  in  the  cold  damp  February  day,  do  we  cough  and  sneeze 
dead  citizens,  all  through  the  service,  but  dead  citizens  have 
got  into  the  very  bellows  of  the  organ,  and  half  choked  the 
same.  We  stamp  our  feet  to  warm  them,  and  dead  citizens 


THE  UNC03IMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


91 


arise  in  heavy  clouds.  Dead  citizens  stick  upon  the  walls, 
and  lie  pulverized  on  the  sounding-board  over  the  clergyman’s 
head,  and,  when  a gust  of  air  comes,  tumble  down  upon 
him. 

In  this  first  experience  I was  so  nauseated  by  too  much 
snuff,  made  of  the  Dowgate  family,  the  Comport  branch,  and 
other  families  and  branches,  that  I gave  but  little  heed  to  our 
dull  manner  of  ambling  through  the  service ; to  the  brisk 
clerk’s  manner  of  encouraging  us  to  try  a note  or  two  at  psalm 
time;  to  the  gallery-congregation’s  manner  of  enjoying  a 
shrill  duet,  without  a notion  of  time  or  tune ; to  the  whitey- 
brown  man’s  manner  of  shutting  the  minister  into  the  pulpit, 
and  being  very  particular  with  the  lock  of  the  door,  as  if  he 
were  a dangerous  animal.  But,  I tried  again  next  Sunday, 
and  soon  accustomed  myself  to  the  dead  citizens  when  I found 
that  I could  not  possibly  get  on  without  them  among  the  City 
churches. 

Another  Sunday. 

After  being  again  rung  for  by  conflicting  bells,  like  a leg  of 
mutton  or  a laced  hat  a hundred  years  ago,  I make  selection 
of  a church  oddly  put  away  in  a corner  among  a number  of 
lanes  — a smaller  church  than  the  last,  and  an  ugly : of  about 
the  date  of  Queen  Anne.  As  a congregation,  we  are  fourteen 
strong  ; not  counting  an  exhausted  charity  school  in  a gallery, 
which  has  dwindled  away  to  four  boys,  and  two  girls.  In  the 
porch,  is  a benefaction  of  loaves  of  bread,  which  there  would 
seem  to  be  nobody  left  in  the  exhausted  congregation  to  claim, 
and  which  I saw  an  exhausted  beadle,  long  faded  out  of  uni- 
form, eating  with  his  eyes  for  self  and  family  when  I passed 
in.  There  is  also  an  exhausted  clerk  in  a brown  wig,  and 
two  or  three  exhausted  doors  and  windows  have  been  bricked 
up,  and  the  service  books  are  musty,  and  the  pulpit  cushions 
are  threadbare,  and  the  whole  of  the  church  furniture  is  in  a 
very  advanced  stage  of  exhaustion.  We  are  three  old  women 
(habitual),  two  young  lovers  (accidental),  two  tradesmen,  one 
with  a wife  and  one  alone,  an  aunt  and  nephew,  again  two 
girls  (these  two  girls  dressed  out  for  the  church  with  every- 
thing about  them  limp  that  should  be  stiff,  and  vice  versa^ 
are  an  invariable  experience),  and  three  sniggering  boys.  The 


92 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


clergyman,  is,  perhaps,  the  chaplain  of  a civic  company ; he 
has  the  moist  and  vinous  look,  eke  the  bulbous  boots,  of 
one  acquainted  with  ’Twenty  port,  and  comet  vintages. 

We  are  so  quiet  in  our  dulness  that  the  three  sniggering 
boys,  who  have  got  away  into  a corner  by  the  altar-railing, 
give  us  a start,  like  crackers,  whenever  they  laugh.  And  this 
reminds  me  of  my  own  village  church  where,  during  sermon- 
time on  bright  Sundays  when  the  birds  are  very  musical 
indeed,  farmers’  boys  patter  out  over  the  stone  pavement, 
and  the  clerk  steps  out  from  his  desk  after  them,  and  is 
distinctly  heard  in  the  summer  repose  to  pursue  and  punch 
them  in  the  churchyard,  and  is  seen  to  return  with  a medi- 
tative countenance,  making  believe  that  nothing  of  the  sort 
has  happened.  The  aunt  and  nephew  in  this  City  church  are 
much  disturbed  by  the  sniggering  boys.  The  nephew  is  him- 
self a boy,  and  the  sniggerers  tempt  him  to  secular  thoughts 
of  marbles  and  string,  by  secretly  offering  such  commodities 
to  his  distant  contemplation.  This  young  Saint  Anthony  for 
a while  resists,  but  presently  becomes  a backslider,  and  in 
dumb  show  defies  the  sniggerers  to  heave”  a marble  or  two 
in  his  direction.  Herein  he  is  detected  by  the  aunt  (a  rigor- 
ous reduced  gentlewoman  who  has  the  charge  of  offices),  and 
I perceive  that  worthy  relative  to  poke  him  in  the  side,  with 
the  corrugated  hooked  handle  of  an  ancient  umbrella.  The 
nephew  revenges  himself  for  this  by  holding  his  breath  and 
terrifying  his  kinswoman  with  the  dread  belief  that  he  has 
made  up  his  mind  to  burst.  Regardless  of  whispers  and 
shakes,  he  swells  and  becomes  discolored,  and  yet  again  swells 
and  becomes  discolored,  until  the  aunt  can  bear  it  no  longer, 
but  leads  him  out,  with  no  visible  neck,  and  with  his  eyes 
going  before  him  like  a prawn’s.  This  causes  the  sniggerers 
to  regard  flight  as  an  eligible  move,  and  I know  which  of 
them  will  go  out  first,  because  of  the  over-devout  attention 
that  he  suddenly  concentrates  on  the  clergyman.  In  a little 
while,  this  hypocrite,  with  an  elaborate  demonstration  of  hush- 
ing his  footsteps,  and  with  a face  generally  expressive  of 
having  until  now  forgotten  a religious  appointment  elsewhere, 
is  gone.  Humber  two  gets  out  in  the  same  way,  but  rather 
quicker.  Humber  three  getting  safely  to  the  door,  there  turns 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


93 


reckless,  and  banging  it  open,  flies  forth  with  a Whoop ! that 
vibrates  to  the  top  of  the  tower  above  us. 

The  clergyman,  who  is  of  a prandial  presence  and  a muffled 
voice,  may  be  scant  of  hearing  as  well  as  of  breath,  but  he 
only  glances  up  as  having  an  idea  that  somebody  has  said 
Amen  in  a wrong  place,  and  continues  his  steady  jog-trot, 
like  a farmer’s  wife  going  to  market.  He  does  all  he  has  to 
do,  in  the  same  easy  way,  and  gives  us  a concise  sermon,  still 
like  the  jog-trot  of  the  farmer’s  wife  on  a level  road.  Its 
drowsy  cadence  soon  lulls  the  three  old  women  asleep,  and 
the  unmarried  tradesman  sits  looking  out  at  window,  and  the 
married  tradesman  sits  looking  at  his  wife’s  bonnet,  and  the 
lovers  sit  looking  at  one  another,  so  superlatively  happy,  that 
I mind  when  I,  turned  of  eighteen,  went  with  my  Angelica  to 
a City  church  on  account  of  a shower  (by  this  special  coin- 
cidence that  it  was  in  Huggin  Lane),  and  when  I said  to  my 
Angelica,  Let  the  blessed  event,  Angelica,  occur  at  no  altar 
but  this ! ” and  when  my  Angelica  consented  that  it  should 
occur  at  no  other  — which  it  certainly  never  did,  for  it  never 
occurred  anywhere.  And  0,  Angelica,  what  has  become  of 
you,  this  present  Sunday  morning  when  I can’t  attend  to  the 
sermon,  and,  more  difficult  question  than  that,  what  has  be- 
come of  Me  as  I was  when  I sat  by  your  side ! 

But,  we  receive  the  signal  to  make  that  unanimous  dive 
which  surely  is  a little  conventional  — like  the  strange  rust- 
lings and  settlings  and  clearings  of  throats  and  noses,  which 
are  never  dispensed  with,  at  certain  points  of  the  Church  ser- 
vice, and  are  never  held  to  be  necessary  under  any  other 
circumstances.  In  a minute  more  it  is  all  over,  and  the  organ 
expresses  itself  to  be  as  glad  of  it  as  it  can  be  of  anything  in 
its  rheumatic  state,  and  in  another  minute  we  are  all  of  us 
out  of  the  church,  and  Whitey -brown  has  locked  it  up.  An- 
other minute  or  little  more,  and,  in  the  neighboring  church- 
yard — not  the  yard  of  that  church,  but  of  another  — a 
churchyard  like  a great  shabby  old  mignonette-box,  with  two 
trees  in  it  and  one  tomb  — I meet  Whitey-brown,  in  his  private 
capacity,  fetching  a pint  of  beer  for  his  dinner  from  the 
public-house  in  the  corner,  where  the  keys  of  the  rotting  fire- 
ladders  are  kept  and  were  never  asked  for,  and  where  there 


94 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


is  a ragged;  white-seamed;  out-at-elbowed  bagatelle  board  on 
the  first  floor. 

In  one  of  these  City  churcheS;  and  only  in  onO;  I found  an 
individual  who  might  have  been  claimed  as  expressly  a City 
personage.  I remember  the  church;  by  the  feature  that  the 
clergyman  couldn’t  get  to  his  own  desk  without  going  through 
the  clerk’S;  or  couldn’t  get  to  the  pulpit  without  goiug 
through  the  reading-desk  — I forget  which;  and  it  is  no  matter 
— and  by  the  presence  of  this  personage  among  the  exceed- 
ingly sparse  congregation.  I doubt  if  we  were  a dozeri;  and 
we  had  no  exhausted  charity  school  to  help  us  out.  The 
personage  was  dressed  in  black  of  square  cut;  and  was 
stricken  in  yearS;  and  wore  a black  velvet  cap;  and  cloth 
shoes.  He  was  of  a staid;  wealthy;  and  dissatisfied  aspect. 
In  his  hand;  he  conducted  to  church  a mysterious  child:  a 
child  of  the  feminine  gender.  The  child  had  a beaver  hat; 
with  a stiff  drab  plume  that  surely  never  belonged  to  any 
bird  of  the  air.  The  child  was  further  attired  in  a nankeen 
frock  and  spencer,  brown  boxing-gloves,  and  a veil.  It  had  a 
blemish,  in  the  nature  of  currant  jelly,  on  its  chin ; and  was 
a thirsty  child.  Insomuch  that  the  personage  carried  in  his 
pocket  a green  bottle,  from  which,  when  the  first  psalm  was 
given  out;  the  child  was  openly  refreshed.  At  all  other  times 
throughout  the  service  it  was  motionless,  and  stood  on  the 
seat  of  the  large  pew,  closely  fitted  into  the  corner,  like  a 
rain-water  pipe. 

The  personage  never  opened  his  book,  and  never  looked  at 
the  clergyman.  He  never  sat  down  either,  but  stood  with 
his  arms  leaning  on  the  top  of  the  pew,  and  his  forehead 
sometimes  shaded  with  his  right  hand,  always  looking  at  the 
church  door.  It  was  a long  church  for  a church  of  its  size, 
and  he  was  at  the  upper  end,  but  he  always  looked  at  the 
door.  That  he  was  an  old  bookkeeper,  or  an  old  trader  who 
had  kept  his  own  books,  and  that  he  might  be  seen  at  the 
Bank  of  England  about  Dividend  times,  no  doubt.  That  he 
had  lived  in  the  City  all  his  life  and  was  disdainful  of  other 
localities,  no  doubt.  Why  he  looked  at  the  door,  I never 
absolutely  proved,  but  it  is  my  belief  that  he  lived  in  expecta- 
tion of  the  time  when  the  citizens  would  come  back  to  live  in 


A CITY  PERSONAGE. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


95 


the  City,  and  its  ancient  glories  would  be  renewed.  He 
appeared  to  expect  that  this  would  occur  on  a Sunday,  and 
that  the  wanderers  would  first  appear,  in  the  deserted  churches, 
penitent  and  humbled.  Hence,  he  looked  at  the  door  which 
they  never  darkened.  Whose  child  the  child  was,  whether 
the  child  of  a disinherited  daughter,  or  some  parish  orphan 
whom  the  personage  had  adopted,  there  was  nothing  to  lead 
up  to.  It  never  played,  or  skipped,  or  smiled.  Once,  the  idea 
occurred  to  me  that  it  was  an  automaton,  and  that  the  per- 
sonage had  made  it;  but  following  the  strange  couple  out 
one  Sunday,  I heard  the  personage  say  to  it,  Thirteen  thou- 
sand pounds ; to  which  it  added  in  a Aveak  human  voice. 
Seventeen  and  fourpence.’’  Four  Sundays  I followed  them 
out,  and  this  is  all  I ever  heard  or  saw  them  say.  One 
Sunday,  I followed  them  home.  They  lived  behind  a pump, 
and  the  personage  opened  their  abode  Avith  an  exceeding  large 
key.  The  one  solitary  inscription  on  their  house  related  to  a 
fire-plug.  The  house  was  partly  undermined  by  a deserted 
and  closed  gateway  ; its  windoAvs  were  blind  Avith  dirt ; and  it 
stood  with  its  face  disconsolately  turned  to  a wall.  Five 
great  churches  and  tAvo  small  ones  rang  their  Sunday  bells 
between  this  house  and  the  church  the  couple  frequented,  so 
they  must  have  had  some  special  reason  for  going  a quarter 
of  a mile  to  it.  The  last  time  I saw  them,  Avas  on  this  Avise. 
I had  been  to  explore  another  church  at  a distance,  and 
happened  to  pass  the  church  they  frequented,  at  about  two  of 
the  afternoon  when  that  edifice  was  closed.  But,  a little  side- 
door,  which  I had  never  observed  before,  stood  open,  and 
disclosed  certain  cellarous  steps.  Methought  They  are 
airing  the  vaults  to-day,’’  Avhen  the  personage  and  the  child 
silently  arrived  at  the  steps,  and  silently  descended.  Of 
course,  I came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  personage  had  at 
last  despaired  of  the  looked-for  return  of  the  penitent  citizens, 
and  that  he  and  the  child  Avent  down  to  get  themselves 
buried. 

In  the  course  of  my  pilgrimages  I came  upon  one  obscure 
church  which  had  broken  out  in  the  melodramatic  style,  and 
was  got  up  Avith  various  taAvdry  decorations,  much  after  the 
manner  of  the  extinct  London  may-poles.  These  attractions 


96 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


had  induced  several  young  priests  or  deacons  in  black  bibs 
for  waistcoats,  and  several  young  ladies  interested  in  that 
noble  order  (the  proportion  being,  as  I estimated,  seventeen 
young  ladies  to  a deacon),  to  come  into  the  City  as  a new 
and  odd  excitement.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  these 
young  people  played  out  their  little  play  in  the  heart  of  the 
City,  all  among  themselves,  without  the  deserted  City’s 
knowing  anything  about  it.  It  was  as  if  you  should  take 
an  empty  counting-house  on  a Sunday,  and  act  one  of  the 
old  Mysteries  there.  They  had  impressed  a small  school 
(from  what  neighborhood  I don’t  know)  to  assist  in  the 
performances,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  notice  frantic  garlands 
of  inscription  on  the  walls,  especially  addressing  those  poor 
innocents  in  characters  impossible  for  them  to  decipher. 
There  was  a remarkably  agreeable  smell  of  pomatum  in  this 
congregation. 

But,  in  other  cases,  rot  and  mildew  and  dead  citizens 
formed  the  uppermost  scent,  while,  infused  into  it  in  a 
dreamy  way  not  at  all  displeasing,  was  the  staple  character  of 
the  neighborhood.  In  the  churches  about  Mark  La.ne,  for 
example,  there  was  a dry  whiff  of  wheat ; and  I accidentally 
struck  an  airy  sample  of  barley  out  of  an  aged  hassock  in 
one  of  them.  From  Eood  Lane  to  Tower  Street,  and  there- 
abouts, there  was  often  a subtle  flavor  of  wine : sometimes, 
of  tea.  One  church  near  Mincing  Lane  smelt  like  a druggist’s 
drawer.  Behind  the  Monument  the  service  had  a flavor  of 
damaged  oranges,  which,  a little  further  down  towards  the 
river,  tempered  into  herrings,  and  gradually  toned  into  a 
cosmopolitan  blast  of  fish.  In  one  church,  the  exact  counter- 
part of  the  church  in  the  Lake’s  Progress  where  the  hero  is 
being  married  to  the  horrible  old  lady,  there  was  no  spe- 
cialty of  atmosphere,  until  the  organ  shook  a perfume  of  hides 
all  over  us  from  some  adjacent  warehouse. 

Be  the  scent  what  it  would,  however,  there  was  no  specialty 
in  the  people.  There  were  never  enough  of  them  to  represent 
any  calling  or  neighborhood.  They  had  all  gone  elsewhere 
over  night,  and  the  few  stragglers  in  the  many  churches 
languished  there  inexpressibly. 

Among  the  Uncommercial  travels  in  which  I have  en- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVEL  LEE. 


97 


gaged,  this  year  of  Sunday  travel  occupies  its  own  place, 
apart  from  all  the  rest.  Whether  I think  of  the  church 
where  the  sails  of  the  oyster-boats  in  the  river  almost  flapped 
against  the  windows,  or  of  the  church  where  the  railroad  made 
the  bells  hum  as  the  train  rushed  by  above  the  roof,  I recall 
a curious  experience.  On  summer  Sundays,  in  the  gentle  rain 
or  the  bright  sunshine  — either,  deepening  the  idleness  of  the 
idle  City  — I have  sat,  in  that  singular  silence  which  belongs 
to  resting-places  usually  astir,  in  scores  of  buildings  at  the 
heart  of  the  world’s  metropolis,  unknown  to  far  greater 
numbers  of  people  speaking  the  English  tongue,  than  the 
ancient  edifices  of  the  Eternal  City,  or  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt. 
The  dark  vestries  and  registries  into  which  I have  peeped, 
and  the  little  hemmed-in  churchyards  that  have  echoed  to  my 
feet,  have  left  impressions  on  my  memory  as  distinct  and 
quaint  as  any  it  has  in  that  way  received.  In  all  those  dusty 
registers  that  the  worms  are  eating,  there  is  not  a line  but 
made  some  hearts  leap,  or  some  tears  flow,  in  their  day. 
Still  and  dry  now,  still  and  dry ! and  the  old  tree  at  the  win- 
dow with  no  room  for  its  branches,  has  seen  them  all  out.  So 
with  the  tomb  of  the  old  Master  of  the  old  Company,  on 
which  it  drips.  His  son  restored  it  and  died,  his  daughter 
restored  it  and  died,  and  then  he  had  been  remembered  long 
enough,  and  the  tree  took  possession  of  him,  and  his  name 
cracked  out. 

There  are  few  more  striking  indications  of  the  changes  of 
manners  and  customs  that  two  or  three  hundred  years  have 
brought  about,  than  these  deserted  churches.  Many  of  them 
are  handsome  and  costly  structures,  several  of  them  were 
designed  by  Wren,  many  of  them  arose  from  the  ashes  of 
the  great  fire,  others  of  them  outlived  the  plague  and  the 
fire  too,  to  die  a slow  death  in  these  later  days.  Ho  one  can 
be  sure  of  the  coming  time ; but  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  of 
it  that  it  has  no  sign  in  its  outsetting  tides,  of  the  reflux  to 
these  churches  of  their  congregations  and  uses.  They  remain 
like  the  tombs  of  the  old  citizens  who  lie  beneath  them  and 
around  them.  Monuments  of  another  age.  They  are  worth  a 
Sunday  exploration,  now  and  then,  for  they  yet  echo,  not  un- 
harmoniously,  to  the  time  when  the  City  of  London  really  was 


98 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


London  ; when  the  ’Prentices  and  Trained  Bands  were  of 
mark  in  the  state  ; when  even  the  Lord  Mayor  himself  was  a 
Keality  — not  a Fiction  conventionally  be-pulfed  on  one  day 
in  the  year  by  illustrious  friends,  who  no  less  conventionally 
laugh  at  him  on  the  remaining  three  hundred  and  sixty-four 
days. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


99 


X. 

SHY  NEIGHBORHOODS. 

So  much  of  my  travelling  is  done  on  foot,  that  if  I 
cherished  betting  propensities,  I should  probably  be  found 
registered  in  sporting  newspapers  under  some  such  title  as  the 
Elastic  Novice,  challenging  all  eleven  stone  mankind  to  com- 
petition in  walking.  My  last  special  feat  was  turning  out  of 
bed  at  two,  after  a hard  day,  pedestrian  and  otherwise,  and 
walking  thirty  miles  into  the  country  to  breakfast.  The  road 
was  so  lonely  in  the  night,  that  I fell  asleep  to  the  monot- 
onous sound  of  my  own  feet,  doing  their  regular  four  miles 
an  hour.  Mile  after  mile  I walked  without  the  slightest  sense 
of  exertion,  dozing  heavily  and  dreaming  constantly.  It  was 
only  when  I made  a stumble  like  a drunken  man,  or  struck 
out  into  the  road  to  avoid  a horseman  close  upon  me  on  the 
path  — who  had  no  existence  — that  I came  to  myself  and 
looked  about.  The  day  broke  mistily  (it  was  autumn-time), 
and  I could  not  disembarrass  myself  of  the  idea  that  I had  to 
climb  those  heights  and  banks  of  clouds,  and  that  there  was 
an  Alpine  Convent  somewhere  behind  the  sun,  where  I was 
going  to  breakfast.  This  sleepy  notion  was  so  much  stronger 
than  such  substantial  objects  as  villages  and  haystacks,  that, 
after  the  sun  was  up  and  bright,  and  when  I was  sufficiently 
awake  to  have  a sense  of  pleasure  in  the  prospect,  I still  oc- 
casionally caught  myself  looking  about  for  wooden  arms  to 
point  the  right  track  up  the  mountain,  and  wondering  there 
was  no  snow  yet.  It  is  a curiosity  of  broken  sleep  that  I 
made  immense  quantities  of  verses  on  that  pedestrian  occasion 
(of  course  I never  make  any  when  I am  in  my  right  senses), 
and  that  I spoke  a certain  language  once  pretty  familiar  to 
me,  but  which  I have  nearly  forgotten  from  disuse,  with 
fluency.  Of  both  these  phenomena  I have  such  frequent  ex- 
perience in  the  state  between  sleeping  and  waking,  that  I 


100 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


sometimes  argue  with,  myself  that  I know  I cannot  be  awake, 
for,  if  I were,  I should  not  be  half  so  ready.  The  readiness 
is  not  imaginary,  because  I often  recall  long  strings  of  the 
verses,  and  many  turns  of  the  fluent  speech,  after  I am  broad 
awake. 

My  walking  is  of  two  kinds : one,  straight  on  end  to  a 
definite  goal  at  a round  pace ; one,  objectless,  loitering,  and 
purely  vagabond.  In  the  latter  state,  no  gypsy  on  earth  is  a 
greater  vagabond  than  myself ; it  is  so  natural  to  me,  and 
strong  with  me,  that  I think  I must  be  the  descendant,  at  no 
great  distance,  of  some  irreclaimable  tramp. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  I have  lately  met  with,  in  a 
vagabond  course  of  shy  metropolitan  neighborhoods  and 
small  shops,  is  the  fancy  of  a humble  artist,  as  exemplified  in 
two  portraits  representing  Mr.  Thomas  Sayers,  of  Great 
Britain,  and  Mr.  John  Heenan,  of  the  United  States  of 
America.  These  illustrious  men  are  highly  colored  in  fight- 
ing trim  and  fighting  attitude.  To  suggest  the  pastoral  and 
meditative  nature  of  their  peaceful  calling,  Mr.  Heenan  is 
represented  on  emerald  sward,  with  primroses  and  other 
modest  flowers  springing  up  under  the  heels  of  his  half- 
boots ; while  Mr.  Sayers  is  impelled  to  the  administration  of 
his  favorite  blow,  the  Auctioneer,  by  the  silent  eloquence  of 
a village  church.  The  humble  homes  of  England,  with  their 
domestic  virtues  and  honeysuckle  porches,  urge  both  heroes 
to  go  in  and  win ; and  the  lark  and  other  singing  birds  are 
observable  in  the  upper  air,  ecstatically  carolling  their  thanks 
to  Heaven  for  a fight.  On  the  whole,  the  associations  en- 
twined with  the  pugilistic  art  by  this  artist  are  much  in  the 
manner  of  Izaak  Walton. 

But,  it  is  with  the  lower  animals  of  back  streets  and  by- 
ways that  my  present  purpose  rests.  For  human  notes  we 
may  return  to  such  neighborhoods  when  leisure  and  oppor- 
tunity serve. 

FTothing  in  shy  neighborhoods  perplexes  my  mind  more, 
than  the  bad  company  birds  keep.  Foreign  birds  often  get 
into  good  society,  but  British  birds  are  inseparable  from  low 
associates.  There  is  a whole  street  of  them  in  St.  Giles’s  ; and 
I always  find  them  in  poor  and  immoral  neighborhoods, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


101 


convenient  to  the  public-house  and  the  pawnbroker’s.  They 
seem  to  lead  people  into  drinking,  and  even  the  man  who 
makes  their  cages  usually  gets  into  a chronic  state  of  black 
eye.  Why  is  this  ? Also,  they  will  do  things  for  people  in 
short-skirted  velveteen  coats  with  bone  buttons,  or  in  sleeved 
waistcoats  and  fur  caps,  which  they  cannot  be  persuaded  by 
the  respectable  orders  of  society  to  undertake.  In  a dirty 
court  in  Spitalfields,  once,  I found  a goldfinch  drawing  his 
own  water,  and  drawing  as  much  of  it  as  if  he  were  in  a 
consuming  fever.  That  goldfinch  lived  at  a bird-shop,  and 
offered,  in  writing,  to  barter  himself  against  old  clothes, 
empty  bottles,  or  even  kitchen  stuff.  Surely  a low  thing  and 
a depraved  taste  in  any  finch  ! I bought  that  goldfinch  for 
money.  He  was  sent  home,  and  hung  upon  a nail  over 
against  my  table.  He  lived  outside  a counterfeit  dwelling- 
house,  supposed  (as  I argued)  to  be  a dyer’s  ; otherwise  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  account  for  his  perch  sticking 
out  of  the  garret  window.  From  the  time  of  his  appearance 
in  my  room,  either  he  left  off  being  thirsty  — which  was  not 
in  the  bond  — or  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  hear  his 
little  bucket  drop  back  into  his  well  when  he  let  it  go ; a 
shock  which  in  the  best  of  times  had  made  him  tremble. 
He  drew  no  water  but  by  stealth  and  under  the  cloak  of 
night.  After  an  interval  of  futile  and  at  length  hopeless 
expectation,  the  merchant  who  had  educated  him  was  ap- 
pealed to.  The  merchant  was  a bow-legged  character,  with 
a flat  and  cushiony  nose,  like  the  last  new  strawberry.  He 
wore  a fur  cap,  and  shorts,  and  was  of  the  velveteen  race, 
velveteeny.  He  sent  word  that  he  would  look  round.” 
He  looked  round,  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  room,  and 
slightly  cocked  up  his  evil  eye  at  the  goldfinch.  Instantly 
a raging  thirst  beset  that  bird ; when  it  was  appeased,  he 
still  drew  several  unnecessary  buckets  of  water  ; and  finally, 
leaped  about  his  perch  and  sharpened  his  bill,  as  if  he  had 
been  to  the  nearest  wine  vaults  and  got  drunk. 

Donkeys  again.  I know  shy  neighborhoods  where  the 
Donkey  goes  in  at  the  street  door,  and  appears  to  live  up- 
stairs, for  I have  examined  the  back  yard  from  over  the 
palings,  and  have  been  unable  to  make  him  out.  Gentility, 


102 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLEB, 


nobility,  Eoyalty,  would  appeal  to  that  donkey  in  vain  to  do 
what  he  does  for  a costermonger.  Feed  him  with  oats  at 
the  highest  price,  put  an  infant  prince  and  princess  in  a pair 
of  panniers  on  his  back,  adjust  his  delicate  trappings  to  a 
nicety,  take  him  to  the  softest  slopes  at  Windsor,  and  try 
what  pace  you  can  get  out  of  him.  Then,  starve  him,  harness 
him  anyhow  to  a truck  with  a flat  tray  on  it,  and  see  him 
bowl  from  Whitechapel  to  Bayswater.  There  appears  to  be 
no  particular  private  understanding  between  birds  and  don- 
keys, in  a state  of  nature ; but  in  the  shy  neighborhood  state, 
you  shall  see  them  always  in  the  same  hands  and  always  devel- 
oping their  very  best  energies  for  the  very  worst  company.  I 
have  known  a donkey  — by  sight;  we  were  not  on  speaking 
terms  — who  lived  over  on  the  Surry  side  of  London  Bridge, 
among  the  fastnesses  of  Jacob’s  Island  and  Dockhead.  It 
was  the  habit  of  that  animal,  when  his  services  were  not  in 
immediate  requisition,  to  go  out  alone,  idling.  I have  met 
him  a mile  from  his  place  of  residence,  loitering  about  the 
streets ; and  the  expression  of  his  countenance  at  such  times 
was  most  degraded.  He  was  attached  to  the  establishment  of 
an  elderly  lady  who  sold  periwinkles,  and  he  used  to  stand  on 
Saturday  nights  with  a cartful  of  those  delicacies  outside  a 
gin-shop,  pricking  up  his  ears  when  a customer  came  to  the 
cart,  and  too  evidently  deriving  satisfaction  from  the  knowl- 
edge that  they  got  bad  measure.  His  mistress  was  sometimes 
overtaken  by  inebriety.  The  last  time  I ever  saw  him  (about 
five  years  ago)  he  was  in  circumstances  of  difficulty,  caused 
by  this  failing.  Having  been  left  alone  with  the  cart  of  peri- 
winkles, and  forgotten,  he  went  off  idling.  He  prowled 
among  his  usual  low  haunts  for  some  time,  gratifying  his 
depraved  tastes,  until,  not  taking  the  cart  into  his  calculations, 
he  endeavored  to  turn  up  a narrow  alley,  and  became  greatly 
involved.  He  was  taken  into  custody  by  the  police,  and,  the 
Green  Yard  of  the  district  being  near  at  hand,  was  backed 
into  that  place  of  durance.  At  that  crisis,  I encountered  him  ; 
the  stubborn  sense  he  evinced  of  being  — not  to  compromise 
the  expression  — a blackguard,  I never  saw  exceeded  in  the 
human  subject.  A flaring  candle  in  a paper  shade,  stuck  in 
among  his  periwinkles,  showed  him,  with  his  ragged  harness 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


103 


broken  and  his  cart  extensively  shattered,  twitching  his  mouth 
and  shaking  his  hanging  head,  a picture  of  disgrace  and  obdu- 
racy. I have  seen  boys  being  taken  to  station-houses,  who 
were  as  like  him  as  his  own  brother. 

The  dogs  of  shy  neighborhoods,  I observe  to  avoid  play, 
and  to  be  conscious  of  poverty.  They  avoid  work,  too,  if 
they  can,  of  course  ; that  is  in  the  nature  of  all  animals.  I 
have  the  pleasure  to  know  a dog  in  a back  street  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Walworth,  who  has  greatly  distinguished 
himself  in  the  minor  drama,  and  who  takes  his  portrait  with 
him  when  he  makes  an  engagement,  for  the  illustration  of  the 
play-bill.  His  portrait  (which  is  not  at  all  like  him)  repre- 
sents him  in  the  act  of  dragging  to  the  earth  a recreant 
Indian,  who  is  supposed  to  have  tomahawked,  or  essayed  to 
tomahawk,  a British  officer.  The  design  is  pure  poetry,  for 
there  is  no  such  Indian  in  the  piece,  and  no  such  incident. 
He  is  a dog  of  the  Newfoundland  breed,  for  whose  honesty  I 
would  be  bail  to  any  amount ; but  whose  intellectual  qualities 
in  association  with  dramatic  fiction,  I cannot  rate  high. 
Indeed,  he  is  too  honest  for  the  profession  he  has  entered. 
Being  at  a town  in  Yorkshire  last  summer,  and  seeing  him 
posted  in  the  bill  of  the  night,  I attended  the  performance. 
His  first  scene  was  eminently  successful ; but,  as  it  occupied 
a second  in  its  representation  (and  five  lines  in  the  bill),  it 
scarcely  afforded  ground  for  a cool  and  deliberate  judgment 
of  his  powers.  He  had  merely  to  bark,  run  on,  and  jump 
through  an  inn  window,  after  a comic  fugitive.  The  next 
scene  of  importance  to  the  fable  was  a little  marred  in  its  in- 
terest by  his  over-anxiety ; forasmuch  as  while  his  master  (a 
belated  soldier  in  a den  of  robbers  on  a tempestuous  night) 
was  feelingly  lamenting  the  absence  of  his  faithful  dog,  and 
laying  great  stress  on  the  fact  that  he  was  thirty  leagues 
away,  the  faithful  dog  was  barking  furiously  in  the  prompter’s 
box,  and  clearly  choking  himself  against  his  collar.  But  it 
was  in  his  greatest  scene  of  all,  that  his  honesty  got  the 
better  of  him.  He  had  to  enter  a dense  and  trackless  forest, 
on  the  trail  of  the  murderer,  and  there  to  fly  at  the  murderer 
when  he  found  him  resting  at  the  foot  of  a tree,  with  his 
victim  bound  ready  for  slaughter.  It  was  a hot  night,  and  he 


104 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


came  into  the  forest  from  an  altogether  unexpected  direction, 
in  the  sweetest  temper,  at  a very  deliberate  trot,  not  in  the 
least  excited  ; trotted  to  the  fooot-lights  with  his  tongue  out ; 
and  there  sat  down,  panting,  and  amiably  surveying  the 
audience,  with  his  tail  beating  on  the  boards,  like  a Dutch 
clock.  Meanwhile  the  murderer,  impatient  to  receive  his 
doom,  was  audibly  calling  to  him  Co-o-ome  here ! while 
the  victim,  struggling  with  his  bonds,  assailed  him  with  the 
most  injurious  expressions.  It  happened  through  these  means, 
that  when  he  was  in  course  of  time  persuaded  to  trot  up 
and  rend  the  murderer  limb  from  limb,  he  made  it  (for 
dramatic  purposes)  a little  too  obvious  that  he  worked  out 
that  awful  retribution  by  licking  butter  oft  his  blood-stained 
hands. 

In  a shy  street,  behind  Long-acre,  two  honest  dogs  live, 
who  perform  in  Punch’s  shows.  I may  venture  to  say  that  I 
am  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  both,  and  that  I never  saw 
either  guilty  of  the  falsehood  of  failing  to  look  down  at  the 
man  inside  the  show,  during  the  whole  performance.  The 
difficulty  other  dogs  have  in  satisfying  their  minds  about  these 
dogs,  appears  to  be  never  overcome  by  time.  The  same  dogs 
must  encounter  them  over  and  over  again,  as  they  trudge 
along  in  their  off-minutes  behind  the  legs  of  the  show  and 
beside  the  drum  ; but  all  dogs  seem  to  suspect  their  frills 
and  jackets,  and  to  sniff  at  them  as  if  they  thought  those 
articles  of  personal  adornment,  an  eruption  — a something  in 
the  nature  of  mange,  perhaps.  Prom  this  Covent-garden  of 
mine  I noticed  a country  dog,  only  the  other  day,  who  had 
come  up  to  Covent-garden  Market  under  a cart,  and  had 
broken  his  cord,  an  end  of  which  he  still  trailed  along  with 
him.  He  loitered  about  the  corners  of  the  four  streets  com- 
manded by  my  window ; and  bad  London  dogs  came  up,  and 
told  him  lies  that  he  didn’t  believe  ; and  worse  London  dogs 
came  up,  and  made  proposals  to  him  to  go  and  steal  in  the 
market,  which  his  principles  rejected ; and  the  ways  of  the 
town  confused  him,  and  he  crept  aside  and  lay  down  in  a 
doorway.  He  had  scarcely  got  a wunk  of  sleep,  when  up 
comes  Punch  with  Toby.  He  was  darting  to  Toby  for  con- 
solation and  advice,  when  he  saw  the  frill,  and  stopped,  in  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


105 


middle  of  the  street,  appalled.  The  show  was  pitched,  Toby 
retired  behind  the  drapery,  the  audience  formed,  the  drum 
and  pipes  struck  up.  My  country  dog  remained  immovable, 
intently  staring  at  these  strange  appearances,  until  Toby 
opened  the  drama  by  appearing  on  his  ledge,  and  to  him 
entered  Punch,  who  put  a tobacco-pipe  into  Toby^s  mouth. 
At  this  spectacle,  the  country  dog  threw  up  his  head,  gave  one 
terrible  howl,  and  fled  due  west. 

We  talk  of  men  keeping  dogs,  but  we  might  often  talk 
more  expressively  of  dogs  keeping  men.  I know  a bull-dog 
in  a shy  corner  of  Hammersmith  who  keeps  a man.  He  keeps 
him  up  a yard,  and  makes  him  go  to  public-houses  and  lay 
wagers  on  him,  and  obliges  him  to  lean  against  posts  and 
look  at  him,  and  forces  him  to  neglect  work  for  him,  and 
keeps  him  under  rigid  coercion.  I once  knew  a fancy  terrier 
who  kept  a gentleman  — a gentleman  who  had  been  brought 
up  at  Oxford,  too.  The  dog  kept  the  gentleman  entirely  for 
his  glorification,  and  the  gentleman  never  talked  about  any- 
thing but  the  terrier.  This,  however,  was  not  in  a shy  neigh- 
borhood, and  is  a digression  consequently. 

There  are  a great  many  dogs  in  shy  neighborhoods,  who 
keep  boys.  I have  my  eye  on  a mongrel  in  Somerstown  who 
keeps  three  boys.  He  feigns  that  he  can  bring  down  sparrows, 
and  unburrow  rats  (he  can  do  neither),  and  he  takes  the  boys 
out  on  sporting  pretences  into  all  sorts  of  suburban  fields.  He 
has  likewise  made  them  believe  that  he  possesses  some  mys- 
terious knowledge  of  the  art  of  fishing,  and  they  consider 
themselves  incompletely  equipped  for  the  Hampstead  ponds, 
with  a pickle-jar  and  a wide-mouthed  bottle,  unless  he  is  with 
them  and  barking  tremendously.  There  is  a dog  residing  in 
the  Borough  of  Southwark  who  keeps  a blind  man.  He  may 
be  seen,  most  days,  in  Oxford  Street,  hauling  the  blind  man 
away  on  expeditions  wholly  uncontemplated  by,  and  unintel- 
ligible to,  the  man : wholly  of  the  dog’s  conception  and  exe- 
cution. Contrariwise,  when  the  man  has  projects,  the  dog 
will  sit  down  in  a crowded  thoroughfare  and  meditate.  I saw 
him  yesterday,  wearing  the  money-tray  like  an  easy  collar, 
instead  of  offering  it  to  the  public,  taking  the  man  against 
his  will,  on  the  invitation  of  a disreputable  cur,  apparently  to 


106 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLER, 


visit  a dog  at  Harrow  — he  was  so  intent  on  that  direction. 
The  north  wall  of  Burlington  House  Gardens,  between  the 
Arcade  and  the  Albany,  offers  a shy  spot  for  appointment 
among  blind  men  at  about  two  or  three  o’clock  in  the  after- 
noon. They  sit  (very  uncomfortably)  on  a sloping  stone  there, 
and  compare  notes.  Their  dogs  may  always  be  observed  at 
the  same  time,  openly  disparaging  the  men  they  keep,  to  one 
another,  and  settling  where  they  shall  respectively  take  their 
men  when  they  begin  to  move  again.  At  a small  butcher’s, 
in  a shy  neighborhood  (there  is  no  reason  for  suppressing 
the  name ; it  is  by  Netting  Hill,  and  gives  upon  the  district 
called  the  Potteries),  I know  a shaggy  black  and  white  dog 
who  keeps  a drover.  He  is  a dog  of  an  easy  disposition,  and 
too  frequently  allows  this  drover  to  get  drunk.  On  these  oc- 
casions, it  is  the  dog’s  custom  to  sit  outside  the  public-house, 
keeping  his  eye  on  a few  sheep,  and  thinking.  I have  seen 
him  with  six  sheep,  plainly  casting  up  in  his  mind  how  many 
he  began  with  when  he  left  the  market,  and  at  what  places 
he  has  left  the  rest.  I have  seen  him  perplexed  by  not  being 
able  to  account  to  himself  for  certain  particular  sheep.  A 
light  has  gradually  broken  on  him,  he  has  remembered  at 
what  butcher’s  he  left  them,  and  in  a burst  of  grave  satisfac- 
tion has  caught  a fly  off  his  nose,  and  shown  himself  much 
relieved.  If  I could  at  any  time  have  doubted  the  fact  that 
it  was  he  who  kept  the  drover,  and  not  the  drover  who  kept 
him,  it  would  have  been  abundantly  proved  by  his  way  of 
taking  undivided  charge  of  the  six  sheep,  when  the  drover 
came  out  besmeared  with  red  ochre  and  beer,  and  gave  him 
wrong  directions,  which  he  calmly  disregarded.  He  has 
taken  the  sheep  entirely  into  his  own  hands,  has  merely 
remarked  with  respectful  firmness,  ^^That  instruction  would 
place  them  under  an  omnibus  ; you  had  better  confine  your 
attention  to  yourself  — you  will  want  it  all ; ” and  has  driven 
his  charge  away,  with  an  intelligence  of  ears  and  tail,  and  a 
knowledge  of  business,  that  has  left  his  lout  of  a man  very, 
very  far  behind. 

As  the  dogs  of  shy  neighborhoods  usually  betray  a slink- 
ing consciousness  of  being  in  poor  circumstances  — for  the 
most  part  manifested  in  an  aspect  of  anxiety,  an  awkward- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


107 


ness  in  their  play,  and  a misgiving  that  somebody  is  going 
to  harness  them  to  something,  to  pick  up  a living  — so  the 
cats  of  shy  neighborhoods  exhibit  a strong  tendency  to 
relapse  into  barbarism.  Not  only  are  they  made  selfishly 
ferocious  by  ruminating  on  the  surplus  population  around 
them,  and  on  the  densely  crowded  state  of  all  the  avenues  to 
cat’s  meat ; not  only  is  there  a moral  and  politico-economical 
haggardness  in  them,  traceable  to  these  reflections  ; but  they 
evince  a physical  deterioration.  Their  linen  is  not  clean,  and 
is  wretchedly  got  up ; their  black  turns  rusty,  like  old  mourn- 
ing ; they  wear  very  indifferent  fur ; and  take  to  the  shabbiest 
cotton  velvet,  instead  of  silk  velvet.  I am  on  terms  of  recog- 
nition with  several  small  streets  of  cats,  about  the  Obelisk  in 
Saint  George’s  Fields,  and  also  in  the  vicinity  of  Clerkenwell- 
green,  and  also  in  the  back  settlements  of  Drury  Lane.  In 
appearance,  they  are  very  like  the  women  among  whom  they 
live.  They  seem  to  turn  out  of  their  unwholesome  beds  into 
the  street,  without  any  preparation.  They  leave  their  young 
families  to  stagger  about  the  gutters,  unassisted,  while  they 
frowzily  quarrel  and  swear  and  scratch  and  spit,  at  street 
corners.  In  particular,  I remark  that  when  they  are  about 
to  increase  their  families  (an  event  of  frequent  occurrence) 
the  resemblance  is  strongly  expressed  in  a certain  dusty 
dowdiness,  down-at-heel  self-neglect,  and  general  giving  up 
of  things.  I cannot  honestly  report  that  I have  ever  seen  a 
feline  matron  of  this  class  washing  her  face  when  in  an  inter- 
esting condition. 

Not  to  prolong  these  notes  of  uncommercial  travel  among 
the  lower  animals  of  shy  neighborhoods,  by  dwelling  at 
length  upon  the  exasperated  moodiness  of  the  tom-cats,  and 
their  resemblance  in  many  respects  to  a man  and  a brother,  I 
will  come  to  a close  with  a word  on  the  fowls  of  the  same 
localities 

That  anything  born  of  an  egg  and  invested  with  wings, 
should  have  got  to  the  pass  that  it  hops  contentedly  down  a 
ladder  into  a cellar,  and  calls  that  going  home,  is  a circum- 
stance so  amazing  as  to  leave  one  nothing  more  in  this  connec- 
tion to  wonder  at.  Otherwise  I might  wonder  at  the  com- 
pleteness with  which  these  fowls  have  become  separated  from 


108 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


all  the  birds  of  the  air  — have  taken  to  grovelling  in  bricks 
and  mortar  and  mud  — have  forgotten  all  about  live  trees^  and 
make  roosting-places  of  shop-boards,  barrows,  oyster-tubs, 
bulkheads,  and  door-scrapers.  I wonder  at  nothing  con- 
cerning them,  and  take  them  as  they  are.  I accept  as  pro- 
ducts of  Nature  and  things  of  course  a reduced  Bantam  family 
of  my  acquaintance  in  the  Hackney-road,  who  are  incessantly 
at  the  pawnbroker’s.  I cannot  say  that  they  enjoy  them- 
selves, for  they  are  of  a melancholy  temperament ; but  what 
enjoyment  they  are  capable  of,  they  derive  from  crowding 
together  in  the  pawnbroker’s  side-entry.  Here,  they  are 
always  to  be  found  in  a feeble  flutter,  as  if  they  were  newly 
come  down  in  the  world,  and  were  afraid  of  being  identified. 
I know  a low  fellow,  originally  of  a good  family  from  Dorking, 
who  takes  his  whole  establishment  of  wives,  in  single  file,  in 
at  the  door  of  the  Jug  Department  of  a disorderly  tavern  near 
the  Haymarket,  manoeuvres  them  among  the  company’s  legs, 
emerges  with  them  at  the  Bottle  Entrance,  and  so  passes  his 
life  : seldom,  in  the  season,  going  to  bed  before  two  in 
the  morning.  Over  Waterloo  Bridge,  there  is  a shabby  old 
speckled  couple  (they  belong  to  the  wooden  French-bedstead, 
washing-stand,  and  towel-horsemaking  trade),  who  are  always 
trying  to  get  in  at  the  door  of  a chapel.  Whether  the  old 
lady,  under  a delusion  reminding  one  of  Mrs.  Southcott,  has 
an  idea  of  intrusting  an  egg  to  that  particular  denomination, 
or  merely  understands  that  she  has  no  business  in  the  build- 
ing and  is  consequently  frantic  to  enter  it,  I cannot  determine  ; 
but  she  is  constantly  endeavoring  to  undermine  the  principal 
door : while  her  partner,  who  is  infirm  upon  his  legs,  walks 
up  and  down,  encouraging  her  and  defying  the  Universe. 
But,  the  family  I have  been  best  acquainted  with,  since  the 
removal  from  this  trying  sphere  of  a Chinese  circle  at  Brent- 
ford, reside  in  the  densest  part  of  Bethnal  Green.  Their 
abstractioiv  from  the  objects  among  which  they  live,  or  rather 
their  conviction  that  those  objects  have  all  come  into  existence 
in  express  subservience  to  fowls,  has  so  enchanted  me,  that  I 
have  made  them  the  subject  of  many  journeys  at  divers  hours. 
After  careful  observation  of  the  two  lords  and  the  ten  ladies 
of  whom  this  family  consists,  I have  come  to  the  conclusion 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


109 


that  their  opinions  are  represented  by  the  leading  lord  and 
leading  lady  : the  latter,  as  I judge,  an  aged  personage, 
afflicted  with  a paucity  of  feather  and  visibility  of  quill,  that 
gives  her  the  appearance  of  a bundle  of  office  pens.  When  a 
railway  goods  van  that  would  crush  an  elephant  comes  round 
the  corner,  tearing  over  these  fowls,  they  emerge  unharmed 
from  under  the  horses,  perfectly  satisfied  that  the  whole  rush 
was  a passing  property  in  the  air,  which  may  have  left  some- 
thing to  eat  behind  it.  They  look  upon  old  shoes,  wrecks  of 
kettles  and  saucepans,  and  fragments  of  bonnets,  as  a kind  of 
meteoric  discharge,  for  fowls  to  peck  at.  Peg-tops  and  hoops 
they  account,  I think,  as  a sort  of  hail ; shuttlecocks,  as  rain, 
or  dew.  Gaslight  comes  quite  as  natural  to  them  as  any 
other  light ; and  I have  more  than  a suspicion  that,  in  the 
minds  of  the  two  lords,  the  early  public-house  at  the  corner 
has  superseded  the  sun.  I have  established  it  as  a certain 
fact,  that  they  always  begin  to  crow  when  the  public-house 
shutters  begin  to  be  taken  down,  and  that  they  salute  the 
potboy,  the  instant  he  appears  to  perform  that  duty,  as  if  he 
were  Phoebus  in  person. 


110 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XI. 

TRAMPS. 

The  chance  use  of  the  word  Tramp  ’’  in . my  last  paper, 
brought  that  numerous  fraternity  so  vividly  before  my  mind’s 
eye,  that  I had  no  sooner  laid  down  my  pen  than  a compul- 
sion was  upon  me  to  take  it  up  again,  and  make  notes  of  the 
Tramps  whom  I perceived  on  all  the  summer  roads  in  all 
directions.  • 

Whenever  a tramp  sits  down  to  rest  by  the  wayside,  he  sits 
with  his  legs  in  a dry  ditch ; and  whenever  he  goes  to  sleep 
(which  is  very  often  indeed),  he  goes  to  sleep  on  his  back. 
Yonder,  by  the  high  road,  glaring  white  in  the  bright  sun- 
shine, lies,  on  the  dusty  bit  of  turf  under  the  bramble-bush 
that  fences  the  coppice  from  the  highway,  the  tramp  of  the 
order  savage,  fast  asleep.  He  lies  on  the  broad  of  his  back, 
with  his  face  turned  up  to  the  sky,  and  one  of  his  ragged  arms 
loosely  thrown  across  his  face.  His  bundle  (what  can  be  the 
contents  of  that  mysterious  bundle,  to  make  it  worth  his  while 
to  carry  it  about  ?)  is  thrown  down  beside  him,  and  the  waking 
woman  with  him  sits  with  her  legs  in  the  ditch,  and  her  back 
to  the  road.  She  wears  her  bonnet  rakishly  perched  on  the 
front  of  her  head,  to  shade  her  face  from  the  sun  in  walking, 
and  she  ties  her  skirts  round  her  in  conventionally  tight 
tramp-fashion  with  a sort  of  apron.  You  can  seldom  catch 
sight  of  her,  resting  thus,  without  seeing  her  in  a despondently 
defiant  manner  doing  something  to  her  hair  or  her  bonnet,  and 
glancing  at  you  between  her  fingers.  She  does  not  often  go 
to  sleep  herself  in  the  daytime,  but  will  sit  for  any  length 
of  time  beside  the  man.  And  his  slumberous  propensities 
would  not  seem  to  be  referable  to  the  fatigue  of  carrying  the 
bundle,  for  she  carries  it  much  oftener  and  further  than  he. 
When  they  are  afoot,  you  will  mostly  find  him  slouching  on 
ahead,  in  a gruff  temper,  while  she  lags  heavily  behind  with 


THIS  IS  A SWEET  SPOT,  AIN’T  IT?  A LOVELY  SPOT! 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Ill 


the  burden.  He  is  given  to  personally  correcting  her,  too 
— which  phase  of  his  character  develops  itself  oftenest,  on 
benches  outside  alehouse  doors — and  she  appears  to  become 
strongly  attached  to  him  for  these  reasons  ; it  may  usually 
be  noticed  that  when  the  poor  creature  has  a bruised  face, 
she  is  the  most  affectionate.  He  has  no  occupation  what- 
ever, this  order  of  tramp,  and  has  no  object  whatever  in 
going  anywhere.  He  will  sometimes  call  himself  a brick- 
maker,  or  a sawyer,  but  only  when  he  takes  an  imaginative 
flight.  He  generally  represents  himself,  in  a vague  way,  as 
looking  out  for  a job  of  work ; but  he  never  did  work,  he 
never  does,  and  he  never  will.  It  is  a favorite  fiction  with 
him,  however  (as  if  he  were  the  most  industrious  character  on 
earth),  that  you  never  work  ; and  as  he  goes  past  your  garden 
and  sees  you  looking  at  your  flowers,  you  will  overhear  him 
growl  with  a strong  sense  of  contrast,  You  are  a lucky  hidle 
devil,  you  are  ! 

The  slinking  tramp  is  of  the  same  hopeless  order,  and  has 
the  same  injured  conviction  on  him  that  you  were  born  to 
whatever  you  possess,  and  never  did  anything  to  get  it : but 
he  is  of  a less  audacious  disposition.  He  will  stop  before 
your  gate,  and  say  to  his  female  companion  with  an  air  of 
constitutional  humility  and  propitiation  — to  edify  any  one 
who  may  be  within  hearing  behind  a blind  or  a bush  — This 
is  a sweet  spot,  ainT  it  ? A lovelly  spot ! And  I wonder  if 
they’d  give  two  poor  footsore  travellers  like  me  and  you,  a 
drop  of  fresh  water  out  of  such  a pretty  gen-teel  crib  ? We’d 
take  it  wery  koind  on  ’em,  wouldn’t  us  ? Wery  koind,  upon 
my  word,  us  would  ? ” He  has  a quick  sense  of  a dog  in  the 
vicinity,  and  will  extend  his  modestly  injured  propitiation  to 
the  dog  chained  up  in  your  yard ; remarking  as  he  slinks  at 
the  yard  gate,  Ah  ! You  are  a foine  breed  o’  dog,  too,  and 
you  ain’t  kep  for  nothink  ! I’d  take  it  wery  koind  o’  your 
master  if  he’d  elp  a traveller  and  his  woife  as  envies  no  gen- 
tlefolk their  good  fortun,  wi’  a bit  o’  your  broken  wittles. 
He’d  never  know  the  want  of  it,  nor  more  would  you.  Don’t 
bark  like  that,  at  poor  persons  as  never  done  you  no  arm ; 
the  poor  is  down-trodden  and  broke  enough  without  that ; 0 
don’t  ! ” He  generally  heaves  a prodigious  sigh  in  moving 


112 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


away,  and  always  looks  up  the  lane  and  down  the  lane,  and 
up  the  road  and  down  the  road,  before  going  on. 

Both  of  these  orders  of  tramp  are  of  a very  robust  habit; 
let  the  hard-working  laborer  at  whose  cottage-door  they 
prowl  and  beg,  have  the  ague  never  so  badly,  these  tramps 
are  sure  to  be  in  good  health. 

There  is  another  kind  of  tramp,  whom  you  encounter  this 
bright  summer  day  — say,  on  a road  with  the  sea-breeze 
making  its  dust  lively,  and  sails  of  ships  in  the  blue  distance 
beyond  the  slope  of  down.  As  you  walk  enjoyingly  on,  you 
descry  in  the  perspective  at  the  bottom  of  a steep  hill  up  which 
your  way  lies,  a figure  that  appears  to  be  sitting  airily  on  a 
gate,  whistling  in  a cheerful  and  disengaged  manner.  As  you 
approach  nearer  to  it,  you  observe  the  figure  to  slide  down 
from  the  gate,  to  desist  from  whistling,  to  uncock  its  hat,  to 
become  tender  of  foot,  to  depress  its  head  and  elevate  its 
shoulders,  and  to  present  all  the  characteristics  of  profound 
despondency.  Arriving  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  and  coming 
close  to  the  figure,  you  observe  it  to  be  the  figure  of  a shabby 
young  man.  He  is  moving  painfully  forward,  in  the  direction 
in  which  you  are  going,  and  his  mind  is  so  preoccupied  with 
his  misfortunes  that  he  is  not  aware  of  your  approach  until 
you  are  close  upon  him  at  the  hill-foot.  When  he  is  aware  of 
you,  you  discover  him  to  be  a remarkably  well-behaved  young 
man,  and  a remarkably  well-spoken  young  man.  You  know 
him  to  be  well-behaved,  by  his  respectful  manner  of  touching 
his  hat : you  know  him  to  be  well-spoken,  by  his  smooth 
manner  of  expressing  himself.  He  says  in  a flowing  confi- 
dential voice,  and  without  punctuation,  I ask  your  pardon 
Sir  but  if  you  would  excuse  the  liberty  of  being  so  addressed 
upon  the  public  Iway  by  one  who  is  almost  reduced  to  rags 
though  it  as  not  always  been  so  and  by  no  fault  of  his  own 
but  through  ill  elth  in  his  family  and  many  unmerited  suffer- 
ings it  would  be  a great-  obligation  sir  to  know  the  time.’’ 
You  give  the  well-spoken  young  man  the  time.  The  well- 
spoken  young  man,  keeping  well  up  with  you,  resumes : I 
am  aware  Sir  that  it  is  a liberty  to  intrude  a further  question 
on  a gentleman  walking  for  his  entertainment  but  might  I 
make  so  bold  as  ask  the  favor  of  the  way  to  Dover  Sir  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


113 


about  the  distance  ? ’’  You  inform  the  well-spoken  young 
man  that  the  way  to  Dover  is  straight  on,  and  the  distance 
some  eighteen  miles.  The  well-spoken  young  man  becomes 
greatly  agitated.  In  the  condition  to  which  I am  reduced/’ 
says  he,  I could  not  ope  to  reach  Dover  before  dark  even  if 
my  shoes  were  in  a state  to  take  me  there  or  my  feet  were  in 
a state  to  old  out  over  the  flinty  road  and  were  not  on  the 
bare  ground  of  which  any  gentleman  has  the  means  to  satisfy 
himself  by  looking  Sir  may  I take  the  liberty  of  speaking  to 
you  ? ” As  the  well-spoken  young  man  keeps  so  well  up  with 
you  that  you  can’t  prevent  his  taking  the  liberty  of  speaking 
to  you,  he  goes  on,  with  fluency  : Sir,  it  is  not  begging  that 
is  my  intention  for  I was  brought  up  by  the  best  of  mothers 
and  begging  is  not  my  trade  I should  not  know  Sir  how  to 
follow  it  as  a trade  as  if  such  were  my  shameful  wishes  for  the 
best  of  mothers  long  taught  otherwise  and  in  the  best  of  omes 
though  now  reduced  to  take  the  present  liberty  on  the  Iway 
Sir  my  business  was  the  law-stationering  and  I was  favorably 
known  to  the  Solicitor-General  the  Attorney-General  the 
majority  of  the  Judges  and  the  ole  of  the  legal  profession  but 
through  ill  elth  in  my  family  and  the  treachery  of  a friend  for 
whom  I became  security  and  he  no  other  than  my  own  wife’s 
brother  the  brother  of  my  own  wife  I was  cast  forth  with  my 
tender  partner  and  three  young  children  not  to  beg  for  I will 
sooner  die  of  deprivation  but  to  make  my  way  to  the  seaport 
town  of  Dover  where  i have  a relative ; in  respect  not  only 
that  will  assist  me  but  that  would  trust  me  with  untold  gold 
Sir  in  appier  times  and  hare  this  calamity  fell  upon  me  I 
made  for  my  amusement  when  I little  thought  that  I should 
ever  need  it  excepting  for  my  air  this  ” — here  the  well-spoken 
young  man  put  his  hand  into  his  breast  — this  comb  ! Sir  I 
implore  you  in  the  name  of  charity  to  purchase  a tortoise-shell 
comb  which  is  a genuine  article  at  any  price  that  your 
humanity  may  put  upon  it  and  may  the  blessings  of  a ouseless 
family  awaiting  with  beating  arts  the  return  of  a husband 
and  a father  from  Dover  upon  the  cold  stone  seats  of  London, 
bridge  ever  attend  you  Sir  may  I take  the  liberty  of  speaking 
to  you  I implore  you  to  buy  this  comb ! ” By  this  time,  being 
a reasonably  good  walker,  you  will  have  been  too  much  for 


114 


TEE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  well-spoken  young  man,  who  will  stop  short  and  express 
his  disgust  and  his  want  of  breath,  in  a long  expectoration,  as 
you  leave  him  behind. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  same  walk,  on  the  same  bright 
summer  day,  at  the  corner  of  the  next  little  town  or  village, 
you  may  find  another  kind  of  tramp,  embodied  in  the  persons 
of  a most  exemplary  couple  whose  only  improvidence  appears 
to  have  been,  that  they  spent  the  last  of  their  little  All  on 
soap.  They  are  a man  and  woman,  spotless  to  behold  — John 
Anderson,  with  the  frost  on  his  short  smock-frock  instead  of 
his  ^^pow,’^  attended  by  Mrs.  Anderson.  John  is  over-osten- 
tatious of  the  frost  upon  his  raiment,  and  wears  a curious  and 
you  would  say,  an  almost  unnecessary  demonstration  of  girdle 
of  white  linen  wound  about  his  waist  — a girdle,  snowy  as 
Mrs.  Anderson’s  apron.  This  cleanliness  was  the  expiring 
effort  of  the  respectable  couple,  and  nothing  then  remained  to 
Mr.  Anderson  but  to  get  chalked  upon  his  spade  in  snow- 
white  copy-book  characters,  hungry  ! and  to  sit  down  here. 
Yes;  one  thing  more  remained  to  Mr.  Anderson  — his  char- 
acter ; Monarchs  could  not  deprive  him  of  his  hard-earned 
character.  Accordingly,  as  you  come  up  with  this  spectacle 
of  virtue  in  distress,  Mrs.  Anderson  rises,  and  with  a decent 
courtesy  presents  for  your  consideration  a certificate  from  a 
Doctor  of  Divinity,  the  reverend  the  Vicar  of  Upper  Dodg- 
ington,  who  informs  his  Christian  friends  and  all  whom  it  may 
concern  that  the  bearers,  John  Anderson  and  lawful  wife,  are 
persons  to  whom  you  cannot  be  too  liberal.  This  benevolent 
pastor  omitted  no  work  of  his  hands  to  fit  the  good  couple 
out,  for  with  half  an  eye  you  can  recognize  his  autograph  on 
the  spade. 

Another  class  of  tramp  is  a man,  the  most  valuable  part  of 
whose  stock-in-trade  is  a highly  perplexed  demeanor.  He  is 
got  up  like  a countryman,  and  you  will  often  come  upon 
the  poor  fellow,  while  he  is  endeavoring  to  decipher  the  in- 
scription on  a milestone  — quite  a fruitless  endeavor,  for  he 
cannot  read.  He  asks  your  pardon,  he  truly  does  (he  is  very 
slow  of  speech,  this  tramp,  and  he  looks  in  a bewildered  way 
all  round  the  prospect  w^hile  he  talks  to  you),  but  all  of  us 
shold  do  as  we  wold  be  done  by,  and  he’ll  take  it  kind,  if 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


115 


you’ll  put  a power  man  in  the  right  road  fur  to  jine  his  eldest 
son  as  has  broke  his  leg  bad  in  the  masoning,  and  is  in  this 
heere  Orspit’l  as  is  wrote  down  by  Squire  Pouncerby’s  own 
hand  as  wold  not  tell  a lie  fur  no  man.  He  then  produces 
from  under  his  dark  frock  (being  always  very  slow  and  per- 
plexed) a neat  but  worn  old  leathern  purse,  from  which  he 
takes  a scrap  of  paper.  On  this  scrap  of  paper  is  written,  by 
Squire  Pouncerby,  of  The  Grove,  Please  to  direct  the  Bearer, 
a poor  but  very  worthy  man,  to  the  Sussex  County  Hospital, 
near  Brighton  ” — a matter  of  some  difficulty  at  the  moment, 
seeing  that  the  request  comes  suddenly  upon  you  in  the  depths 
of  Hertfordshire.  The  more  you  endeavor  to  indicate  where 
Brighton  is  — when  you  have  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
remembered  — the  less  the  devoted  father  can  be  made  to 
comprehend,  and  the  more  obtusely  he  stares  at  the  prospect ; 
whereby,  being  reduced  to  extremity,  you  recommend  the 
faithful  parent  to  begin  by  going  to  St.  Albans,  and  present 
him  with  half  a crown.  It  does  him  good,  no  doubt,  but 
scarcely  helps  him  forward,  since  you  find  him  lying  drunk 
that  same  evening  in  the  wheelwright’s  sawpit  under  the  shed 
where  the  felled  trees  are,  opposite  the  sign  of  the  Three 
Jolly  Hedgers. 

But,  the  most  vicious,  by  far,  of  all  the  idle  tramps,  is  the 
tramp  who  pretends  to  have  been  a gentleman.  Edu- 
cated,” he  writes,  from  the  village  beer-shop  in  pale  ink  of 
a ferruginous  complexion  ; educated  at  Trin.  Coll.  Cam. 
— nursed  in  the  lap  of  affluence — once  in  my  small  way 
the  patron  of  the  Muses,”  etc.,  — surely  a sympathetic  mind 
will  not  withhold  a trifle,  to  help  him  on  to  the  market-town 
where  he  thinks  of  giving  a Lecture  to  the  fruges  consumer e 
nati,  on  things  in  general  ? This  shameful  creature  lolling 
about  hedge  tap-rooms  in  his  ragged  clothes,  now  so  far 
from  being  black  that  they  look  as  if  they  never  can  have 
been  black,  is  more  selfish  and  insolent  than  even  the  savage 
tramp.  He  would  sponge  on  the  poorest  boy  for  a farthing, 
and  spurn  him  when  he  had  got  it  ; he  would  interpose  (if 
he  could  get  anything  by  it)  between  the  baby  and  the 
mother’s  breast.  So  much  lower  than  the  company  he  keeps, 
for  his  maudlin  assumption  of  being  higher,  this  pitiless  rascal 


116 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


blights  the  summer  road  as  he  maunders  on  between  the 
luxuriant  hedges  : where  (to  my  thinking)  even  the  wild 
convolvulus  and  rose  and  sweetbrier,  are  the  worse  for  his 
going  by,  and  need  time  to  recover  from  the  taint  of  him  in 
the  air. 

The  young  fellows  who  trudge  along  barefoot,  five  or  six 
together,  their  boots  slung  over  their  shoulders,  their  shabby 
bundles  under  their  arms,  their  sticks  newly  cut  from  some 
roadside  wood,  are  not  eminently  prepossessing,  but  are  much 
less  objectionable.  There  is  a tramp-fellowship  among  them. 
They  pick  one  another  up  at  resting  stations,  and  go  on  in 
companies.  They  always  go  at  a fast  swing  — though  they 
generally  limp  too  — and  there  is  invariably  one  of  the  com- 
pany who  has  much  ado  to  keep  up  with  the  rest.  They 
generally  talk  about  horses,  and  any  other  means  of  locomo- 
tion than  wmlking : or,  one  of  the  company  relates  some  re- 
cent experiences  of  the  road  — which  are  always  disputes  and 
difficulties.  As  for  example.  So  as  I’m  a-standing  at  the 
pump  in  the  market,  blest  if  there  don’t  come  up  a Beadle, 
and  he  ses,  ^ Mustn’t  stand  here,’  he  ses.  ^ Why  not  ? ’ I ses. 
^ No  beggars  allowed  in  this  town,’  he  ses.  ‘ Who’s  a beggar  ? ’ 
I ses.  ^ You  are,’  he  ses.  ^ Who  ever  see  me  beg  ? Did 
you  ? ’ I ses.  ^ Then  you’re  a tramp,’  he  ses.  ^ I’d  rather  be 
that  than  a Beadle,’  I ses.”  (The  company  express  great 
approval.)  Would  you,’ he  ses  to  me.  ^Yes  I would,’ I 
ses  to  him.  ^Well,’  he  ses,  ^anyhow,  get  out  of  this  town.’ 
— ‘ Why,  blow  your  little  towm ! ’ I ses,  ^ who  wants  to  be  in 
it  ? Wot  does  your  dirty  little  town  mean  by  cornin’  and 
stickin’  itself  in  the  road  to  anywhere  ? Why  don’t  you  get 
a shovel  and  a barrer,  and  clear  your  town  out  o’  people’s 
way  ? ’ ” (The  company  expressing  the  highest  approval  and 
laughing  aloud,  they  all  go  down  the  hill.) 

Then,  there  are  the  tramp  handicraft  men.  Are  they  not 
all  over  England,  in  this  Midsummer  time  ? Where  does 
the  lark  sing,  the  corn  grow,  the  mill  turn,  the  river  run, 
and  they  are  not  among  the  lights  and  shadows,  tinkering, 
chair-mending,  umbrella-mending,  clock-mending,  knife-grind- 
ing ? Surely,  a pleasant  thing,  if  we  were  in  that  condi- 
tion of  life,  to  grind  our  way  through  Kent,  Sussex,  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


117 


Surrey.  For  the  first  six  weeks  or  so,  we  should  see  the 
sparks  we  ground  off,  fiery  bright  against  a background  of 
green  wheat  and  green  leaves.  A little  later,  and  the  ripe 
harvest  would  pale  our  sparks  from  red  to  yellow,  until  we 
got  the  dark  newly  turned  land  for  a background  again,  and 
they  were  red  once  more.  By  that  time,  we  should  have 
ground  our  way  to  the  sea  cliffs,  and  the  whir  of  our  wheel 
would  be  lost  in  the  breaking  of  the  waves.  Our  next  variety 
in  sparks  would  be  derived  from  contrast  with  the  gorgeous 
medley  of  colors  in  the  autumn  woods,  and,  by  the  time  we 
had  ground  our  way  round  to  the  heathy  lands  between 
Keigate  and  Croydon,  doing  a prosperous  stroke  of  business 
all  along,  we  should  show  like  a little  firework  in  the  light 
frosty  air,  and  be  the  next  best  thing  to  the  blacksmith’s  forge. 
Very  agreeable,  too,  to  go  on  a chair-mending  tour.  What 
judges  we  should  be  of  rushes,  and  how  knowingly  (with  a 
sheaf  and  a bottomless  chair  at  our  back)  we  should  lounge 
on  bridges,  looking  over  at  osier-beds.  Among  all  the  in- 
numerable occupations  that  cannot  possibly  be  transacted 
without  the  assistance  of  lookers-on,  chair-mending  may  take 
a station  in  the  first  rank.  When  we  sat  down  with  our  backs 
against  the  barn  or  the  public-house,  and  began  to  mend, 
what  a sense  of  popularity  would  grow  upon  us.  When  all 
the  children  came  to  look  at  us,  and  the  tailor,  and  the  general 
•dealer,  and  the  farmer  who  had  been  giving  a small  order  at 
the  little  saddler’s,  and  the  groom  from  the  great  house,  and 
the  publican,  and  even  the  two  skittle-players  (and  here  note 
that  howsoever  busy  all  the  rest  of  village  human-kind  may 
be,  there  will  always  be  two  people  with  leisure  to  play  at 
skittles,  wherever  village  skittles  are),  what  encouragement 
would  be  on  us  to  plait  and  weave  ! No  one  looks  at  us  w^hile 
we  plait  and  weave  these  words.  Clock-mending  again. 
Except  for  the  slight  inconvenience  of  carrying  a clock  under 
our  arm,  and  the  monotony  of  making  the  bell  go,  whenever 
we  came  to  a human  habitation,  what  a pleasant  privilege  to 
give  a voice  to  the  dumb  cottage  clock,  and  set  it  talking  to 
the  cottage  family  again.  Likewise  we  foresee  great  interest 
in  going  round  by  the  park  plantations,  under  the  overhanging 
boughs  (hares,  rabbits,  partridges,  and  pheasants,  scudding 


118 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


like  mad  across  and  across  the  checkered  ground  before  us), 
and  so  over  the  park  ladder,  and  through  the  wood,  until  we 
came  to  the  Keeper’s  lodge.  Then,  would  the  Keeper  be 
discoverable  at  his  door,  in  a deep  nest  of  leaves,  smoking  his 
pipe.  Then,  on  our  accosting  him  in  the  way  of  our  trade, 
would  he  call  to  Mrs.  Keeper,  respecting  t’ould  clock  ’’  in 
the  kitchen.  Then,  would  Mrs.  Keeper  ask  us  into  the  lodge, 
and  on  due  examination  we  should  offer  to  make  a good  job 
of  it  for  eighteen-pence  ; which  offer,  being  accepted,  would 
set  us  tinkling  and  clinking  among  the  chubby  awe-struck 
little  Keepers  for  an  hour  and  more.  So  completely  to  the 
family’s  satisfaction  would  we  achieve  our  work,  that  the 
Keeper  would  mention  how  that  there  was  something  wrong 
with  the  bell  of  the  turret  stable-clock  up  at  the  Hall,  and 
that  if  we  thought  good  of  going  up  to  the  housekeeper  on 
the  chance  of  that  job  too,  why  he  would  take  us.  Then, 
should  we  go,  among  the  branching  oaks  and  the  deep  fern, 
by  silent  ways  of  mystery  known  to  the  Keeper,  seeing  the 
herd  glancing  here  and  there  as  we  went  along,  until  we 
came  to  the  old  Hall,  solemn  and  grand.  Under  the  Terrace 
Flower  Garden,  and  round  by  the  stables,  would  the  Keeper 
take  us  in,  and  as  we  passed  we  should  observe  how  spacious 
and  stately  the  stables,  and  how  fine  the  painting  of  the 
horses’  names  over  their  stalls,  and  how  solitary  all  : the 
family  being  in  London.  Then,  should  we  find  ourselves 
presented  to  the  housekeeper,  sitting,  in  hushed  state,  at 
needlework,  in  a bay  window  looking  out  upon  a mighty 
grim  red-brick  quadrangle,  guarded  by  stone  lions  disrespect- 
fully throwing  somersaults  over  the  escutcheons  of  the  noble 
family.  Then,  our  services  accepted  and  we  insinuated  with 
a candle  into  the  stable-turret,  we  should  find  it  to  be  a mere 
question  of  pendulum,  but  one  that  would  hold  us  until  dark. 
Then,  should  we  fall  to  work,  with  a general  impression  of 
Ghosts  being  about,  and  of  pictures  in-doors  that  of  a certainty 
came  out  of  their  frames  and  ^^Avalked,”  if  the  family  would 
only  own  it.  Then,  should  we  work  and  work,  until  the  day 
gradually  turned  to  dusk,  and  even  until  the  dusk  gradually 
turned  to  dark.  Our  task  at  length  accomplished,  we  should 
be  taken  into  an  enormous  servants’  hall,  and  there  regaled 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


119 


with  beef  and  bread,  and  powerful  ale.  Then,  paid  freely, 
we  should  be  at  liberty  to  go,  and  should  be  told  by  a point- 
ing helper  to  keep  round  over  yinder  by  the  blasted  ash,  and 
so  straight  through  the  woods,  till  we  should  see  the  town- 
lights  right  afore  us.  Then,  feeling  lonesome,  should  we 
desire  upon  the  whole,  that  the  ash  had  not  been  blasted,  or 
that  the  helper  had  had  the  manners  not  to  mention  it. 
However,  we  should  keep  on,  all  right,  till  suddenly  the 
stable  bell  would  strike  ten  in  the  dolefullest  way,  quite 
chilling  our  blood,  though  we  had  so  lately  taught  him  how 
to  acquit  himself.  Then,  as  we  went  on,  should  we  recall 
old  stories,  and  dimly  consider  what  it  would  be  most 
advisable  to  do,  in  the  event  of  a tall  figure,  all  in  white, 
with  saucer  eyes,  coming  up  and  saying,  I want  you  to 
come  to  a churchyard  and  mend  a church  clock.  Follow 
me  ! Then,  should  we  make  a burst  to  get  clear  of  the 
trees,  and  should  soon  find  ourselves  in  the  open,  with  the 
town-lights  bright  ahead  of  us.  So  should  we  lie  that  night 
at  the  ancient  sign  of  the  Crispin  and  Crispanus,  and  rise 
early  next  morning  to  be  betimes  on  tramp  again. 

Bricklayers  often  tramp,  in  twos  and  threes,  lying  by  night 
at  their  ^Hodges,’^  which  are  scattered  all  over  the  country. 
Bricklaying  is  another  of  the  occupations  that  can  by  no 
means  be  transacted  in  rural  parts,  without  the  assistance  of 
spectators  — of  as  many  as  can  be  convened.  In  thinly  peopled 
spots,  I have  known  bricklayers  on  tramp,  coming  up  with 
bricklayers  at  work,  to  be  so  sensible  of  the  indispensability 
of  lookers-on,  that  they  themselves  have  set  up  in  that  capa- 
city, and  have  been  unable  to  subside  into  the  acceptance  of 
a proffered  share  in  the  job,  for  two  or  three  days  together. 
Sometimes  the  navvy,’^  on  tramp,  with  an  extra  pair  of  half- 
boots over  his  shoulder,  a bag,  a bottle,  and  a can,  will  take  a 
similar  part  in  a job  of  excavation,  and  will  look  at  it  without 
engaging  in  it,  until  all  his  money  is  gone.  The  current  of 
my  uncommercial  pursuits  caused  me  only  last  summer  to 
want  a little  body  of  workmen  for  a certain  spell  of  work  in  a 
pleasant  part  of  the  country ; and  I was  at  one  time  honored 
with  the  attendance  of  as  many  as  seven  and  twenty,  who 
were  looking  at  six. 


120 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Who  can  be  familiar  with  any  rustic  highway  in  summer- 
time, without  storing  up  knowledge  of  the  many  tramps  who 
go  from  one  oasis  of  town  or  village  to  another,  to  sell  a stock- 
in-trade,  apparently  not  worth  a shilling  when  sold  ? Shrimps 
are  a favorite  commodity  for  this  kind  of  speculation,  and  so 
are  cakes  of  a soft  and  spongy  character,  coupled  with  Spanish 
nuts  and  brandy  balls.  The  stock  is  carried  on  the  head  in  a 
basket,  and,  between  the  head  and  the  basket,  are  the  trestles 
on  which  the  stock  is  displayed  at  trading  times.  Meet  of 
foot,  but  a careworn  class  of  tramp  this,  mostly ; with  a cer- 
tain stiffness  of  neck,  occasioned  by  much  anxious  balancing 
of  baskets ; and  also  with  a long  Chinese  sort  of  eye,  which 
an  overweighted  forehead  would  seem  to  have  squeezed  into 
that  form. 

On  the  hot  dusty  roads  near  seaport  towns  and  great  rivers, 
behold  the  tramping  Soldier.  And  if  you  should  happen  never 
to  have  asked  yourself  whether  his  uniform  is  suited  to  his 
work,  perhaps  the  poor  fellow’s  appearance  as  he  comes  dis- 
tressfully towards  you,  with  his  absurdly  tight  jacket  unbut- 
toned, his  neck-gear  in  his  hand,  and  his  legs  well  chafed  by 
his  trousers  of  baize,  may  suggest  the  personal  inquiry,  how 
you  think  you  would  like  it.  Much  better  the  tramping  Sailor, 
although  his  cloth  is  somewhat  too  thick  for  land  service.  But, 
why  the  tramping  merchant-mate  should  put  on  a black  velvet 
waistcoat,  for  a chalky  country  in  the  dog-days,  is  one  of  the 
great  secrets  of  nature  that  will  never  be  discovered. 

I have  my  eye  upon  a piece  of  Kentish  road,  bordered  on 
either  side  by  a wood,  and  having  on  one  hand,  between  the 
road-dust  and  the  trees,  a skirting  patch  of  grass.  Wild 
flowers  grow  in  abundance  on  this  spot,  and  it  lies  high  and 
airy,  with  a distant  river  stealing  steadily  away  to  the  ocean, 
like  a man’s  life.  To  gain  the  milestone  here,  which  the 
moss,  primroses,  violets,  blue-bells,  and  wild  roses,  would  soon 
render  illegible  but  for  peering  travellers  pushing  them  aside 
with  the  sticks,  you  must  come  up  a steep  hill,  come  which 
way  you  may.  So,  all  the  tramps  with  carts  or  caravans  — 
the  Gypsy-tramp,  the  Show-tramp,  the  Cheap  Jack  — And  it 
impossible  to  resist  the  temptations  of  the  place,  and  all  turn 
the  horse  loose  when  they  come  to  it,  and  boil  the  pot.  Bless 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TEAVELLEB. 


121 


the  place,  I love  the  ashes  of  the  vagabond  fires  that  have 
scorched  its  grass ! What  tramp  children  do  I see  here,  attired 
in  a handful  of  rags,  making  a gymnasium  of  the  shafts  of  the 
cart,  making  a feather-bed  of  the  flints  and  brambles,  making 
a toy  of  the  hobbled  old  horse  who  is  not  much  more  like  a 
horse  than  any  cheap  toy  would  be  ! Here,  do  I encounter  the 
cart  of  mats  and  brooms  and  baskets  — with  all  thoughts  of 
business  given  to  the  evening  wind  — with  the  stew  made  and 
being  served  out — with  Cheap  Jack  and  Dear  Gill  striking 
soft  music  out  of  the  plates  that  are  rattled  like  warlike  cym- 
bals when  put  up  for  auction  at  fairs  and  markets  — their 
minds  so  influenced  (no  doubt)  by  the  melody  of  the  nightin- 
gales as  they  begin  to  sing  in  the  woods  behind  them,  that  if 
I were  to  propose  to  deal,  they  would  sell  me  anything  at  cost 
price.  On  this  hallowed  ground  has  it  been  my  happy  privilege 
(let  me  whisper  it),  to  behold  the  White-haired  Lady  with  the 
pink  eyes,  eating  meat-pie  with  the  Giant : while,  by  the  hedge- 
side,  on  the  box  of  blankets  v/hich  I knew  contained  the  snakes, 
were  set  forth  the  cups  and  saucers  and  the  teapot.  It  was 
on  an  evening  in  August,  that  I chanced  upon  this  ravishing 
spectacle,  and  I noticed  that,  whereas  the  Giant  reclined  half 
concealed  beneath  the  overhanging  boughs  and  seemed  indif- 
ferent to  Nature,  the  white  hair  of  the  gracious  Lady  streamed 
free  in  the  breath  of  evening,  and  her  pink  eyes  found  pleas- 
ure in  the  landscape.  I heard  only  a single  sentence  of  her 
uttering,  yet  it  bespoke  a talent  for  modest  repartee.  The  ill- 
mannered  Giant  — accursed  be  his  evil  race!  — had  interrupted 
the  Lady  in  some  remark,  and,  as  I passed  that  enchanted 
corner  of  the  wood,  she  gently  reproved  him,  with  the  words. 
Now,  Cobby  ; — Cobby  ! so  short  a name  ! — ain’t  one  fool 
enough  to  talk  at  a time  ? ” 

Within  appropriate  distance  of  this  magic  ground,  though 
not  so  near  it  as  that  the  song  trolled  from  tap  or  bench  at 
door,  can  invade  its  woodland  silence,  is  a little  hostelry  which 
no  man  possessed  of  a penny  was  ever  know  to  pass  in  warm 
weather.  Before  its  entrance,  are  certain  pleasant  trimmed 
limes ; likewise  a cool  well,  with  so  musical  a bucket-handle 
that  its  fall  upon  the  bucket  rim  will  make  a horse  prick  up 
his  ears  and  neigh,  upon  the  droughty  road  half  a mile  off. 


122 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


This  is  a house  of  great  resort  for  haymaking  tramps  and  har- 
vest tramps,  insomuch  that  as  they  sit  within,  drinking  their 
mugs  of  beer,  their  relinquished  scythes  and  reaping-hooks 
glare  out  of  the  open  windows,  as  if  the  whole  establishment 
were  a family  war-coach  of  Ancient  Britons.  Later  in  the 
season,  the  whole  country-side,  for  miles  and  miles,  will  swarm 
with  hopping  tramps.  They  come  in  families,  men,  women, 
and  children,  every  family  provided  with  a bundle  of  bedding, 
an  iron  pot,  a number  of  babies,  and  too  often  with  some  poor 
sick  creature  quite  unfit  for  the  rough  life,  for  whom  they 
suppose  the  smell  of  the  fresh  hop  to  be  a sovereign  remedy. 
Many  of  these  hoppers  are  Irish,  but  many  come  from  Lon- 
don. They  crowd  all  the  roads,  and  camp  under  all  the 
hedges  and  on  all  the  scraps  of  common  land,  and  live  among 
and  upon  hops  until  they  are  all  picked,  and  the  hop-gardens, 
so  beautiful  through  the  summer,  look  as  if  they  had  been 
laid  waste  by  an  invading  army.  Then,  there  is  a vast  exodus 
of  tramps  out  of  the  country ; and  if  you  ride  or  drive  round 
any  turn  of  any  road,  at  more  than  a foot  pace,  you  will  be 
bewildered  to  find  that  you  have  charged  into  the  bosom  of 
fifty  families,  and  that  there  are  splashing  up  all  around  you, 
in  the  utmost  prodigality  of  confusion,  bundles  of  bedding, 
babies,  iron  pots,  and  a good-humored  multitude  of  both  sexes 
and  all  ages,  equally  divided  between  perspiration  and  intoxi- 
cation. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


123 


XII. 

DULLBOROUGH  TOWN. 

It  lately  happened  that  I found  myself  rambling  about  the 
scenes  among  which  my  earliest  days  were  passed ; scenes 
from  which  I departed  when  I was  a child,  and  which  I did 
not  revisit  until  I was  a man.  This  is  no  uncommon  chance, 
but  one  that  befalls  some  of  us  any  day  ; perhaps  it  may 
not  be  quite  uninteresting  to  compare  notes  with  the  reader 
respecting  an  experience  so  familiar  and  a journey  so  uncom- 
mercial. 

I call  my  boyhood^s  home  (and  I feel  like  a Tenor  in  an 
English  Opera  when  I mention  it)  Dullborough.  Most  of  us 
come  from  Dullborough  who  come  from  a country  town. 

As  I left  Dullborough  in  the  days  when  there  were  no  rail- 
roads in  the  land,  I left  it  in  a stage-coach.  Through  all  the 
years  that  have  since  passed,  have  I ever  lost  the  smell  of  the 
damp  straw  in  which  I was  packed  — like  game  — and  for- 
warded, carriage  paid,  to  the  Cross  Keys,  Wood  Street,  Cheap- 
side,  London  ? There  was  no  other  inside  passenger,  and  I 
consumed  my  sandwiches  in  solitude  and  dreariness,  and  it 
rained  hard  all  the  way,  and  I thought  life  sloppier  than  I 
had  expected  to  find  it. 

With  this  tender  remembrance  upon  me,  I was  cavalierly 
shunted  back  into  Dullborough  the  other  day,  by  train.  My 
ticket  had  been  previously  collected,  like  my  taxes,  and  my 
shining  new  portmanteau  had  had  a great  plaster  stuck  upon 
it,  and  I had  been  defied  by  Act  of  Parliament  to  offer  an 
objection  to  anything  that  was  done  to  it,  or  me,  under  a 
penalty  of  not  less  than  forty  shillings  or  more  than  five 
pounds,  compoundable  for  a term  of  imprisonment.  When  I 
had  sent  my  disfigured  property  on  to  the  hotel,  I began  to 
look  about  me  ; and  the  first  discovery  I made,  was,  that  the 
Station  had  swallowed  up  the  playing-field. 


124 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


It  was  gone.  The  two  beautiful  hawthorn  trees,  the  hedge, 
the  turf,  and  all  those  buttercups  and  daisies,  had  given  place 
to  the  stoniest  of  jolting-roads : while,  beyond  the  Station,  an 
ugly  dark  monster  of  a tunnel  kept  its  jaws  open,  as  if  it  had 
swallowed  them  and  were  ravenous  for  more  destruction. 
The  coach  that  had  carried  me  away,  was  melodiously  called 
Timpson’s  Blue-Eyed  Maid,  and  belonged  to  Timpson,  at  the 
coach-office  up-street ; the  locomotive  engine  that  had  brought 
me  back,  was  called  severely  No.  97,  and  belonged  to  S.E.E., 
and  was  spitting  ashes  and  hot  water  over  the  blighted  ground. 

When  I had  been  let  out  at  the  platform  door,  like  a 
prisoner  whom  his  turnkey  grudgingly  released,  I looked  in 
again  over  the  low  wall,  at  the  scene  of  departed  glories. 
Here,  in  the  haymaking  time,  had  I been  delivered  from  the 
dungeons  of  Seringapatam,  an  immense  pile  (of  haycock),  by 
my  countrymen,  the  victorious  British  (boy  next  door  and 
his  two  cousins),  and  had  been  recognized  with  ecstasy  by  my 
affianced  one  (Miss  Green),  who  had  come  all  the  way  from 
England  (second  house  in  the  terrace)  to  ransom  me,  and 
marry  me.  Here,  had  I first  heard  in  confidence,  from  one 
whose  father  was  greatly  connected,  being  under  Government, 
of  the  existence  of  a terrible  banditti,  called  The  Kadicals,’ ’ 
whose  principles  were,  that  the  Prince  Eegent  wore  stays,  and 
that  nobody  had  a right  to  any  salary,  and  that  the  army  and 
navy  ought  to  be  put  down  — horrors  at  which  I trembled  in 
my  bed,  after  supplicating  that  the  Eadicals  might  be  speedily 
taken  and  hanged.  Here,  too,  had  we,  the  small  boys  of 
Boles’s,  had  that  cricket  match  against  the  small  boys  of 
Coles’s,  when  Boles  and  Coles  had  actually  met  upon  the 
ground,  and  when,  instead  of  instantly  hitting  out  at  one 
another  with  the  utmost  fury,  as  we  had  all  hoped  and  ex- 
pected, those  sneaks  had  said  respectively,  ‘^1  hope  Mrs. 
Boles  is  well,”  and  I hope  Mrs.  Coles  and  the  baby  are 
doing  charmingly.”  Could  it  be  that,  after  all  this,  and  much 
more,  the  playing-field  was  a Station,  and  No.  97  expectorated 
boiling  water  and  red-hot  cinders  on  it,  and  the  whole  belonged 
by  Act  of  Parliament  to  S.E.E.  ? 

As  it  could  be,  and  was,  I left  the  place  with  a heavy  heart 
for  a walk  all  over  the  town.  And  first  of  Timpson’s  up- 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


125 


street.  When  I departed  from  Dullborough  in  the  strawy 
arms  of  Timpson^s  Blue-Eyed  Maid,  Timpsoids  was  a moder- 
ate-sized coach-office  (in  fact,  a little  coach-office),  with  an 
oval  transparency  in  the  window,  which  looked  beautiful  by 
night,  representing  one  of  Timpson’s  coaches  in  the  act  of 
passing  a milestone  on  the  London  road  with  great  velocity, 
completely  full  inside  and  out,  and  all  the  passengers  dressed 
in  the  first  style  of  fashion,  and  enjoying  themselves  tre- 
mendously. I found  no  such  place  as  Timpsoids  now  — no 
such  bricks  and  rafters,  not  to  mention  the  name  — no  such 
edifice  on  the  teeming  earth.  Bickford  had  come  and  knocked 
Timpson’s  down.  Bickford  had  not  only  knocked  Timpsoids 
down,  but  had  knocked  two  or  three  houses  down  on  each 
side  of  Timpsoffis,  and  then  had  knocked  the  whole  into  one 
great  establishment  with  a pair  of  big  gates,  in  and  out  of 
which,  his  (Bickford^s)  wagons  are,  in  these  days,  always  rat- 
tling, with  their  drivers  sitting  up  so  high,  that  they  look  in 
at  the  second-floor  windows  of  the  old-fashioned  houses  in  the 
High  Street  as  they  shake  the  town.  I have  not  the  honor  of 
Bickford’s  acquaintance,  but  I felt  that  he  had  done  me  an 
injury,  not  to  say  committed  an  act  of  boyslaughter,  in  run- 
ning over  my  childhood  in  this  rough  manner ; and  if  ever  I 
meet  Bickford  driving  one  of  his  own  monsters,  and  smoking 
a pipe  the  while  (which  is  the  custom  of  his  men),  he  shall 
know  by  the  expression  of  my  eye,  if  it  catches  his,  that  there 
is  something  wrong  between  us. 

Moreover,  I felt  that  Bickford  had  no  right  to  come  rushing 
into  Dullborough  and  deprive  the  town  of  a public  picture. 
He  is  not  ISTapoleon  Bonaparte.  When  he  took  down  the 
transparent  stage-coach,  he  ought  to  have  given  the  town  a 
transparent  van.  With  a gloomy  conviction  that  Bickford  is 
wholly  utilitarian  and  unimaginative,  I proceeded  on  my  way. 

It  is  a mercy  I have  not  a red  and  green  lamp  and  a night- 
bell  at  my  door,  for  in  my  very  young  days  I was  taken  to  so 
many  lyings-in  that  I wonder  I escaped  becoming  a profes- 
sional martyr  to  them  in  after-life.  I suppose  I had  a very 
sympathetic  nurse,  with  a large  circle  of  married  acquaintance. 
However  that  was,  as  I continued  my  walk  through  Dull- 
borough, I found  many  houses  to  be  solely  associated  in  my 


126 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


mind  with  this  particular  interest.  At  one  little  green- 
grocer’s shop^  down  certain  steps  from  the  street,  I remember 
to  have  waited  on  a lady  who  had  had  four  children  (I  am 
afraid  to  write  five,  though  I fully  believe  it  was  five)  at  a 
birth.  This  meritorious  woman  held  quite  a reception  in  her 
room  on  the  morning  when  I was  introduced  there,  and  the 
sight  of  the  house  brought  vividly  to  my  mind  how  the  four 
(five)  deceased  young  people  lay,  side  by  side,  on  a clean  cloth 
on  a chest  of  drawers  ; reminding  me  by  a homely  association, 
which  I suspect  their  complexion  to  have  assisted,  of  pigs’ 
feet  as  they  are  usually  displayed  at  a neat  tripe-shop.  Hot 
caudle  was  handed  round  on  the  occasion,  and  I further 
remembered  as  I stood  contemplating  the  greengrocer’s,  that 
a subscription  was  entered  into  among  the  company,  which 
became  extremely  alarming  to  my  consciousness  of  having 
pocket-money  on  my  person.  This  fact  being  known  to  my 
conductress,  whoever  she  was,  I was  earnestly  exhorted  to 
contribute,  but  resolutely  declined : therein  disgusting  the 
company,  who  gave  me  to  understand  that  I must  dismiss  all 
expectations  of  going  to  Heaven. 

How  does  it  happen  that  when  all  else  is  change  wherever 
one  goes,  there  yet  seem,  in  every  place,  to  be  some  few  peo- 
ple who  never  alter  ? As  the  sight  of  the  greengrocer’s 
house  recalled  these  trivial  incidents  of  long  ago,  the  identi- 
cal greengrocer  appeared  on  the  steps,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  leaning  his  shoulder  against  the  doorpost,  as 
my  childish  eyes  had  seen  him  many  a time ; indeed,  there 
was  his  old  mark  on  the  door-post  yet,  as  if  his  shadow  had 
become  a fixture  there.  It  was  he  himself ; he  might  formerly 
. have  been  an  old-looking  young  man,  or  he  might  now  be  a 
young-looking  old  man,  but  there  he  was.  In  walking  along 
the  street,  I had  as  yet  looked  in  vain  for  a familiar  face,  or 
even  a transmitted  face : here  was  the  very  greengrocer  who 
had  been  weighing  and  handling  baskets  on  the  morning  of 
the  reception.  As  he  brought  with  him  a dawning  remem- 
brance that  he  had  had  no  proprietary  interest  in  those  babies, 
I crossed  the  road,  and  accosted  him  on  the  subject.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  excited  or  gratified,  or  in  any  way  roused,  by 
the  accuracy  of  my  recollection,  but  said,  Yes,  summut  out  of 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


127 


the  common  — he  didn’t  remember  how  many  it  was  (as  if 
half  a dozen  babes  either  way  made  no  difference)  — had  hap- 
pened to  a Mrs.  What’s-her-name,  as  once  lodged  there  — but 
he  didn’t  call  it  to  mind,  particular.  Settled  by  this  phleg- 
matic conduct^  I informed  him  that  I had  left  the  town  when 
I was  a child.  He  slowly  returned,  quite  unsoftened,  and  not 
without  a sarcastic  kind  of  complacency.  Had  I ? Ah  ! And 
did  I find  it  had  got  on  tolerably  well  without  me  ? Such  is 
the  difference  (I  thought,  when  I had  left  him  a few  hundred 
yards  behind,  and  was  by  so  much  in  a better  temper) 
between  going  away  from  a place  and  remaining  in  it.  I had 
no  right,  I reflected,  to  be  angry  with  the  greengrocer  for  his 
want  of  interest,  I was  nothing  to  him  : whereas  he  was  the 
town,  the  cathedral,  the  bridge,  the  river,  my  childhood,  and 
a large  slice  of  my  life,  to  me. 

Of  course  the  town  had  shrunk  fearfully,  since  I was  a 
child  there.  I had  entertained  the  impression  that  the  High 
Street  was  at  least  as  wide  as  Regent  Street,  London,  or  the 
Italian  Boulevard  at  Paris.  I found  it  little  better  than  a 
lane.  There  was  a public  clock  in  it,  which  I had  supposed 
to  be  the  finest  clock  in  the  world : whereas  it  now  turned 
out  to  be  as  inexpressive,  moon-faced,  and  weak  a clock  as 
ever  I saw.  It  belonged  to  a Town  Hall,  where  I had  seen 
an  Indian  (who  I now  suppose  wasn’t  an  Indian)  swallow  a 
sword  (which  I now  suppose  he  didn’t).  The  edifice  had 
appeared  to  me  in  those  days  so  glorious  a structure,  that  I 
had  set  it  up  in  my  mind  as  the  model  on  which  the  Genie  of 
the  Lamp  built  the  palace  for  Aladdin.  A mean  little  brick 
heap,  like  a demented  chapel,  with  a few  yawning  persons  in 
leather  gaiters,  and  in  the  last  extremity  for  something  to  do, 
lounging  at  the  door  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  and 
calling  themselves  a Corn  Exchange  ! 

The  Theatre  was  in  existence,  I found,  on  asking  the  fish- 
monger, who  had  a compact  show  of  stock  in  his  window, 
consisting  of  a sole  and  a quart  of  shrimps  — and  I resolved 
to  comfort  my  mind  by  going  to  look  at  it.  Richard  the 
Third,  in  a very  uncomfortable  cloak,  had  first  appeared  to 
me  there,  and  had  made  my  heart  leap  with  terror  by  backing 
up  against  the  stage-box  in  which  I was  posted,  while  strug- 


128 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TBAVELLEB, 


gling  for  life  against  the  virtuous  Eichmond.  It  was  within 
those  walls  that  I had  learned  as  from  a page  of  English 
history,  how  that  wicked  King  slept  in  war-time  on  a sofa 
much  too  short  for  him,  and  how  fearfully  his  conscience 
troubled  his  boots.  There,  too,  had  I first  seen  the  funny 
countryman,  but  countryman  of  noble  principles,  in  a flowered 
waistcoat,  crunch  up  his  little  hat  and  throw  it  on  the  ground, 
and  pull  off  his  coat,  saying  Dom  thee,  squire,  coom  on  with 
thy  fistes  then ! At  which  the  lovely  young  woman  who 
kept  company  with  him  (and  who  went  out  gleaning,  in  a 
narrow  white  muslin  apron  with  five  beautiful  bars  of  five 
different  colored  ribbons  across  it)  was  so  frightened  for  his 
sake,  that  she  fainted  away.  Many  wondrous  secrets  of 
Nature  had  I come  to  the  knowledge  of  in  that  sanctuary: 
of  which  not  the  least  terrific  were,  that  the  witches  in  Mac- 
beth bore  an  awful  resemblance  to  the  Thanes  and  others 
proper  inhabitants  of  Scotland ; and  that  the  good  King 
Duncan  couldnT  rest  in  his  grave,  but  was  constantly  coming 
out  of  it,  and  calling  himself  somebody  else.  To  the  Theatre, 
therefore,  I repaired  for  consolation.  But  I found  very  little, 
for  it  was  in  a bad  and  declining  way.  A dealer  in  wine  and 
bottled  beer  had  already  squeezed  his  trade  into  the  box-office, 
and  the  theatrical  money  was  taken  — when  it  came  — in  a 
kind  of  meat-safe  in  the  passage.  The  dealer  in  wine  and 
bottled  beer  must  have  insinuated  himself  under  the  stage 
too;  for  he  announced  that  he  had  various  descriptions  of 
alcoholic  drinks  in  the  wood,’^  and  there  was  no  possible 
stowage  for  the  wood  anywhere  else.  Evidently,  he  was  by 
degrees  eating  the  establishment  away  to  the  core,  and  would 
soon  have  sole  possession  of  it.  It  was  To  Let,  and  hope- 
lessly so,  for  its  old  purposes ; and  there  had  been  no  enter- 
tainment within  its  walls  for  a long  time  except  a Panorama ; 
and  even  that  had  been  announced  as  pleasingly  instructive,’’ 
and  I know  too  well  the  fatal  meaning  and  the  leaden  import 
of  those  terrible  expressions.  No,  there  was  no  comfort  in 
the  Theatre.  It  was  mysteriously  gone,  like  my  own  youth. 
Unlike  my  own  youth,  it  might  be  coming  back  some  day; 
but  there  was  little  promise  of  it. 

As  the  town  was  placarded  with  references  to  the  Dull- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


129 


borough  Mechanics’  Institution,  I thought  I would  go  and 
look  at  that  establishment  next.  There  had  been  no  such 
thing  in  the  town,  in  my  young  day,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  its  extreme  prosperity  might  have  brought  adversity 
upon  the  Drama.  I found  the  Institution  with  some  difficulty, 
and  should  scarcely  have  known  that  I had  found  it  if  I had 
judged  from  its  external  appearance  only  ; but  this  was  attrib- 
utable to  its  never  having  been  finished,  and  having  no 
front : consequently,  it  led  a modest  and  retired  existence  up 
a stable-yard.  It  was  (as  I learned,  on  inquiry)  a most  flour- 
ishing Institution,  and  of  the  highest  benefit  to  the  town : 
two  triumphs  which  I was  glad  to  understand  were  not  at  all 
impaired  by  the  seeming  drawbacks  that  no  mechanics  be- 
longed to  it,  and  that  it  was  steeped  in  debt  to  the  chimney- 
pots. It  had  a large  room,  which  was  approached  by  an 
infirm  step-ladder:  the  builder  having  declined  to  construct 
the  intended  staircase,  without  a present  payment  in  cash, 
which  Dullborough  (though  profoundly  appreciative  of  the 
Institution)  seemed  unaccountably  bashful  about  subscribing. 
The  large  room  had  cost  — or  would,  when  paid  for  — five 
hundred  pounds ; and  it  had  more  mortar  in  it  and  more 
echoes,  than  one  might  have  expected  to  get  for  the  money. 
It  was  fitted  up  with  a platform,  and  the  usual  lecturing  tools, 
including  a large  blackboard  of  a menacing  appearance.  On 
referring  to  lists  of  the  courses  of  lectures  that  had  been 
given  in  this  thriving  Hall,  I fancied  I detected  a shyness  in 
admitting  that  human  nature  when  at  leisure  has  any  desire 
whatever  to  be  relieved  and  diverted  ; and  a furtive  sliding  in 
of  any  poor  make-weight  piece  of  amusement,  shamefacedly 
and  edgewise.  Thus,  I observed  that  it  was  necessary  for  the 
members  to  be  knocked  on  the  head  with  Gas,  Air,  Water, 
Food,  the  Solar  System,  the  Geological  periods.  Criticism  on 
Milton,  the  Steam-engine,  John  Bunyan,  and  Arrow-Headed 
Inscriptions,  before  they  might  be  tickled  by  those  unaccount- 
able choristers,  the  negro  singers  in  the  court  costume  of  the 
reign  of  George  the  Second.  Likewise,  that  they  must  be 
stunned  by  a weighty  inquiry  whether  there  was  internal 
evidence  in  Shakespeare’s  works,  to  prove  that  his  uncle  by 
the  mother’s  side  lived  for  some  years  at  Stoke  Newington, 


130 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


before  they  were  brought-to  by  a Miscellaneous  Concert. 
But,  indeed  the  masking  of  entertainment,  and  pretending  it 
was  something  else  — as  people  mask  bedsteads  when  they 
are  obliged  to  have  them  in  sitting-rooms,  and  make  believe 
that  they  are  book-cases,  sofas,  chests  of  drawers,  anything 
rather  than  bedsteads  — was  manifest  even  in  the  pretence  of 
dreariness  that  the  unfortunate  entertainers  themselves  felt 
obliged  in  decency  to  put  forth  when  they  came  here.  One 
very  agreeable  professional  singer  who  travelled  with  two  pro- 
fessional ladies,  knew  better  than  to  introduce  either  of  those 
ladies  to  sing  the  ballad  -^Coinin’  through  the  Bye’’  without 
prefacing  it  himself,  with  some  general  remarks  on  wheat  and 
clover ; and  even  then,  he  dared  not  for  his  life  call  the  song, 
a song,  but  disguised  it  in  the  bill  as  an  ^^Illustration.”  In 
the  library  also  — fitted  with  shelves  for  three  thousand 
books,  and  containing  upwards  of  one  hundred  and  seventy 
(presented  copies  mostly),  seething  their  edges  in  damp 
plaster  — there  was  such  a painfully  apologetic  return  of  62 
offenders  who  had  read  Travels,  Popular  Biography,  and  mere 
Fiction  descriptive  of  the  aspirations  of  the  hearts  and  souls 
of  mere  human  creatures  like  themselves ; and  such  an  elabo- 
rate parade  of  2 bright  examples  who  had  had  down  Euclid 
after  the  day’s  occupation  and  confinement ; and  3 who  had 
had  down  Metaphysics  after  ditto;  and  one  who  had  had 
down  Theology  after  ditto;  and  4 who  had  worried  Grammar, 
Political  Economy,  Botany,  and  Logarithms  all  at  once  after 
ditto  ; that  I suspected  the  boasted  class  to  be  one  man,  who 
had  been  hired  to  do  it. 

Emerging  from  the  Mechanics’  Institution  and  continuing 
my  walk  about  the  town,  I still  noticed  everywhere  the  preva- 
lence, to  an  extraordinary  degree,  of  this  custom  of  putting 
the  natural  demand  for  amusement  out  of  sight,  as  some  un- 
tidy housekeepers  put  dust,  and  pretending  that  it  was  swept 
away.  And  yet  it  was  ministered  to,  in  a dull  and  abortive 
manner,  by  all  who  made  this  feint.  Looking  in  at  what  is 
called  in  Dullborough  ^^the  serious  bookseller’s,”  where,  in 
my  childhood,  I had  studied  the  faces  of  numbers  of  gentle- 
men depicted  in  rostrums  with  a gaslight  on  each  side  of 
them,  and  casting  my  eyes  over  the  open  pages  of  certain 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLElt, 


131 


printed  discourses  there,  I found  a vast  deal  of  aiming  at 
jocosity  and  dramatic  effect,  even  in  them — yes,  verily,  even 
on  the  part  of  one  very  wrathful  expounder  who  bitterly 
anathematized  a poor  little  Circus.  Similarly,  in  the  reading 
provided  for  the  young  people  enrolled  in  the  Lasso  of  Love, 
and  other  excellent  unions,  I found  the  writers  generally 
under  a distressing  sense  that  they  must  start  (at  all  events) 
like  story-tellers,  and  delude  the  young  persons  into  the  belief 
that  they  were  going  to  be  interesting.  As  I looked  in  at 
this  window  for  twenty  minutes  by  the  clock,  I am  in  a posi- 
tion to  offer  a friendly  remonstrance  — not  bearing  on  this 
particular  point  — to  the  designers  and  engravers  of  the  pic- 
tures in  those  publications.  Have  they  considered  the  awful 
consequences  likely  to  flow  from  their  representations  of 
Virtue  ? Have  they  asked  themselves  the  question,  whether 
the  terrific  prospect  of  acquiring  that  fearful  chubbiness  of 
head,  unwieldiness  of  arm,  feeble  dislocation  of  leg,  crispi- 
ness of  hair,  and  enormity  of  shirt-collar,  which  they  repre- 
sent as  inseparable  from  Goodness,  may  not  tend  to  confirm 
sensitive  waverers,  in  evil  ? A most  impressive  example  (if 
I had  believed  it)  of  what  a Dustman  and  a Sailor  may  come 
to,  when  they  mend  their  ways,  was  presented  to  me  in  this 
same  shop  window.  When  they  were  leaning  (they  were 
intimate  friends)  against  a post,  drunk  and  reckless,  with  sur- 
passingly bad  hats  on,  and  their  hair  over  their  foreheads, 
they  were  rather  picturesque,  and  looked  as  if  they  might  be 
agreeable  men,  if  they  would  not  be  beasts.  But,  when  they 
had  got  over  their  bad  propensities,  and  when,  as  a conse- 
quence, their  heads  had  swelled  alarmingly,  their  hair  had  got 
so  curly  that  it  lifted  their  blown-out  cheeks  up,  their  coat- 
cuffs  were  so  long  that  they  never  could  do  any  work,  and 
their  eyes  were  so  wide  open  that  they  never  could  do  any 
sleep,  they  presented  a spectacle  calculated  to  plunge  a timid 
nature  into  the  depths  of  Infamy. 

But,  the  clock  that  had  so  degenerated  since  I saw  it  last, 
admonished  me  that  I had  stayed  here  long  enough ; and  I 
resumed  my  walk. 

I had  not  gone  fifty  paces  along  the  street  when  I was  sud- 
denly brought  up  by  the  sight  of  a man  who  got  out  of  a 


132 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


little  phaeton  at  the  doctor’s  door,  and  went  into  the  doctor’s 
house.  Immediately,  the  air  was  filled  with  the  scent  of 
trodden  grass,  and  the  perspective  of  years  opened,  and  at 
the  end  of  it  was  a little  likeness  of  this  man  keeping  a 
wicket,  and  I said,  God  bless  my  soul!  Joe  Specks!” 

Through  many  changes  and  much  work,  I had  preserved  a 
tenderness  for  the  memory  of  Joe,  forasmuch  as  we  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Eoderick  Eandoni  together,  and  had  be- 
lieved him  to  be  no  ruffian,  but  an  ingenuous  and  engaging 
hero.  Scorning  to  ask  the  boy  left  in  the  phaeton  whether  it 
was  really  Joe,  and  scorning  even  to  read  the  brass  plate  on 
the  door  — so  sure  was  I — I rang  the  bell  and  informed  the 
servant  maid  that  a stranger  sought  audience  of  Mr.  Specks. 
Into  a room,  half  surgery,  half  study,  I was  shown  to  await 
his  coming,  and  I found  it,  by  a series  of  elaborate  accidents, 
bestrewn  with  testimonies  to  Joe.  Portrait  of  Mr.  Specks, 
bust  of  Mr.  Specks,  silver  cup  from  grateful  patient  to  Mr. 
Specks,  presentation  sermon  from  local  clergyman,  dedication 
poem  from  local  poet,  dinner-card  from  local  nobleman,  tract 
on  balance  of  power  from  local  refugee,  inscribed  Hommage 
de  V auteur  a Specks. 

When  my  old  schoolfellow  came  in,  and  I informed  him 
with  a smile  that  I was  not  a patient,  he  seemed  rather  at  a 
loss  to  perceive  any  reason  for  smiling  in  connection  with  that 
fact,  and  inquired  to  what  was  he  to  attribute  the  honor  ? I 
asked  him,  with  another  smile,  could  he  remember  me  at  all  ? 
He  had  not  (he  said)  that  pleasure.  I was  beginning  to  have 
but  a poor  opinion  of  Mr.  Specks,  when  he  said  reflectively, 
^^And  yet  there’s  a something  too.”  Upon  that,  I saw  a 
boyish  light  in  his  eyes  that  looked  well,  and  I asked  him  if 
he  could  inform  me,  as  a stranger  who  desired  to  know  and 
had  not  the  means  of  reference  at  hand,  what  the  name  of 
the  young  lady  was,  who  married  Mr.  Eandoni  ? Upon  that, 
he  said,  ^^Harcissa,”  and,  after  staring  fora  moment,  called 
me  by  my  name,  shook  me  by  the  hand,  and  melted  into  a 
roar  of  laughter.  ^^Why,  of  course,  you’ll  remember  Lucy 
Green,”  he  said,  after  we  had  talked  a little.  Of  course,” 
said  I.  ^’Whoin  do  you  think  she  married?”  said  he. 
‘^You?”  I hazarded.  ^^Me,”  said  Specks,  ^‘and  you  shall 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


133 


see  her/^  So  I saw  her,  and  she  was  fat,  and  if  all  the  hay 
in  the  world  had  been  heaped  upon  her,  it  could  scarcely  have 
altered  her  face  more  than  Time  had  altered  it  from  my 
remembrance  of  the  face  that  had  once  looked  down  upon  me 
into  the  fragrant  dungeons  of  Seringapatam.  But  when  her 
youngest  child  came  in  after  dinner  (for  I dined  with  them, 
and  we  had  no  other  company  than  Specks,  Junior,  Barrister- 
at-law,  who  went  away  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was  removed,  to 
look  after  the  young  lady  to  whom  he  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried next  week),  I saw  again,  in  that  little  daughter,  the 
little  face  of  the  hayfield,  unchanged,  and  it  quite  touched 
my  foolish  heart.  We  talked  immensely,  Specks  and  Mrs. 
Specks,  and  I,  and  we  spoke  of  our  old  selves  as  though  our 
old  selves  were  dead  and  gone,  and  indeed  indeed  they  were 
— dead  and  gone  as  the  playing-field  that  had  become  a wilder- 
ness of  rusty  iron,  and  the  property  of  S.E.B. 

Specks,  however,  illuminated  Dullborough  with  the  rays  of 
interest  that  I wanted  and  should  otherwise  have  missed  in  it, 
and  linked  its  present  to  its  past,  with  a highly  agreeable 
chain.  And  in  Specks’s  society  I had  new  occasion  to  ob- 
serve what  I had  before  noticed  in  similar  communications 
among  other  men.  All  the  schoolfellows  and  others  of  old, 
whom  I inquired  about,  had  either  done  superlatively  well  or 
superlatively  ill  — had  either  become  uncertificated  bankrupts, 
or  been  felonious,  and  got  themselves  transported ; or  had 
made  great  hits  in  life,  and  done  wonders.  And  this  is  so 
commonly  the  case,  that  I never  can  imagine  what  becomes 
of  all  the  mediocre  people  of  people’s  youth  — especially  con- 
sidering that  we  find  no  lack  of  the  species  in  our  maturity. 
But,  I did  not  propound  this  difficulty  to  Specks,  for  no 
pause  in  the  conversation  gave  me  an  occasion.  Nor,  could  I 
discover  one  single  flaw  in  the  good  doctor  — when  he  reads 
this,  he  will  receive  in  a friendly  spirit  the  pleasantly  meant 
record  — except  that  he  had  forgotten  his  Boderick  Kandoni, 
and  that  he  confounded  Strap  with  Lieutenant  Hatchway; 
who  never  knew  Eandom,  howsoever  intimate  with  Pickle. 

When  I went  alone  to  the  Kailway  to  catch  my  train  at 
night  (Specks  had  meant  to  go  with  me,  but  was  inoppor- 
tunely called  out),  I was  in  a more  charitable  mood  with 


134 


TEE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Diillborough  than  I had  been  all  day ; and  yet  in  my  heart  I 
had  loved  it  all  day  too.  Ah  ! who  was  I that  I should  quarrel 
with  the  town  for  being  changed  to  me,  when  I myself  had 
come  back,  so  changed  to  it ! All  my  early  readings  and 
early  imaginations  dated  from  this  place,  and  I took  them 
away  so  full  of  innocent  construction  and  guileless  belief,  and 
I brought  them  back  so  worn  and  torn,  so  much  the  wiser  and 
so  much  the  worse  ! 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


135 


XIIL 

NIGHT  WALKS. 

Some  years  ago,  a temporary  inability  to  sleep,  referable  to 
a distressing  impression,  caused  me  to  walk  about  the  streets 
all  night,  for  a series  of  several  nights.  The  disorder  might 
have  taken  a long  time  to  conquer,  if  it  had  been  faintly 
experimented  on  in  bed;  but,  it  was  soon  defeated  by  the 
brisk  treatment  of  getting  up  directly  after  lying  down,  and 
going  out,  and  coming  home  tired  at  sunrise. 

In  the  course  of  those  nights,  I finished  my  education  in  a 
fair  amateur  experience  of  houselessness.  My  principal  object 
being  to  get  through  the  night,  the  pursuit  of  it  brought  me 
into  sympathetic  relations  with  people  who  have  no  other 
object  every  night  in  the  year. 

The  month  was  March,  and  the  weather  damp,  cloudy,  and 
cold.  The  sun  not  rising  before  half-past  five,  the  night  per- 
spective looked  sufficiently  long  at  half-past  twelve : which 
was  about  my  time  for  confronting  it. 

The  restlessness  of  a great  city,  and  the  way  in  which  it 
tumbles  and  tosses  before  it  can  get  to  sleep,  formed  one  of 
the  first  entertainments  offered  to  the  contemplation  of  us 
houseless  people.  It  lasted  about  two  hours.  We  lost  a great 
deal  of  companionship  when  the  late  public-houses  turned 
their  lamps  out,  and  when  the  potmen  thrust  the  last  brawl- 
ing drunkards  into  the  street ; but  stray  vehicles  and  stray 
people  were  left  us,  after  that.  If  we  were  very  lucky,  a 
policeman’s  rattle  sprang  and  a fray  turned  up ; but,  in 
general,  surprisingly  little  of  this  diversion  was  provided. 
Except  in  the  Hay  market,  which  is  the  worst  kept  part  of 
London,  and  about  Kent  Street  in  the  Borough,  and  along  a 
portion  of  the  line  of  the  Old  Kent-road,  the  peace  wms 
seldom  violently  broken.  But,  it  was  always 'the  case  that 
London,  as  if  in  imitation  of  individual  citizens  belonging  to 


136 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


it,  had  expiring  fits  and  starts  of  restlessness.  After  all 
seemed  quiet,  if  one  cab  rattled  by,  half  a dozen  would  surely 
follow;  and  Houselessness  even  observed  that  intoxicated 
people  appeared  to  be  magnetically  attracted  towards  each 
other;  so  that  we  knew  when  we  saw  one  drunken  object 
staggering  against  the  shutters  of  a shop,  that  another  drunken 
object  would  stagger  up  before  five  minutes  were  out,  to 
fraternize  or  fight  with  it.  When  we  made  a divergence  from 
the  regular  species  of  drunkard,  the  thin-armed,  puff-faced, 
leaden-lipped  gin-drinker,  and  encountered  a rarer  specimen  of 
a more  decent  appearance,  fifty  to  one  but  that  specimen  was 
dressed  in  soiled  mourning.  As  the  street  experience  in  the 
night,  so  the  street  experience  in  the  day  ; the  common  folk 
who  come  unexpectedly  into  a little  property,  come  unex- 
pectedly into  a deal  of  liquor. 

At  length  these  flickering  sparks  would  die  away,  worn  out 
— the  last  veritable  sparks  of  waking  life  trailed  from  some 
late  pieman  or  hot-potato  man  — and  London  would  sink  to 
rest.  And  then  the  yearning  of  the  houseless  mind  would  be 
for  any  sign  of  company,  any  lighted  place,  any  movement, 
anything  suggestive  of  any  one  being  up  — nay,  even  so  much 
as  awake,  for  the  houseless  eye  looked  out  for  lights  in 
windows. 

Walking  the  streets  under  the  pattering  rain.  Houseless- 
ness would  walk  and  walk  and  walk,  seeing  nothing  but 
the  interminable  tangle  of  streets,  save  at  a corner,  here  and 
there,  two  policemen  in  conversation,  or  the  sergeant  or  in- 
spector looking  after  his  men.  Now  and  then  in  the  night  — 
but  rarely  — Houselessness  Avould  become  aware  of  a furtive 
head  peering  out  of  a doorway  a few  yards  before  him,  and, 
coming  up  with  the  head,  would  find  a man  standing  bolt 
upright  to  keep  within  the  doorway’s  shadow,  and  evidently 
intent  upon  no  particular  service  to  society.  Under  a kind  of 
fascination,  and  in  a ghostly  silence  suitable  to  the  time. 
Houselessness  and  this  gentleman  would  eye  one  another 
from  head  to  foot,  and  so,  without  exchange  of  speech,  part, 
mutually  suspicious.  Drip,  drip,  drip,  from  ledge  and  coping, 
splash  from  pipes  and  water-spouts,  and  by  and  by  the  house- 
less shadow  would  fall  upon  the  stones  that  pave  the  way  to 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


137 


Waterloo  Bridge ; it  being  in  the  houseless  mind  to  have  a 
halfpenny  worth  of  excuse  for  saying  Good-night  to  the 
toll-keeper,  and  catching  a glimpse  of  his  fire.  A good  fire 
and  a good  great-coat  and  a good  woollen  neck-shawl,  were 
comfortable  things  to  see  in  conjunction  with  the  toll-keeper ; 
also  his  brisk  wakefulness  was  excellent  company  when  he 
rattled  the  change  of  halfpence  down  upon  that  metal  table 
of  liis,  like  a man  who  defied  the  night,  with  all  its  sorrowful 
thoughts,  and  didn’t  care  for  the  coming  of  dawn.  There 
was  need  of  encouragement  on  the  threshold  of  the  bridge, 
for  the  bridge  was  dreary.  The  chopped-up  murdered  man 
had  not  been  lowered  with  a rope  over  the  parapet  when  those 
nights  were ; he  was  alive,  and  slept  then  quietly  enough 
most  likely,  and  undisturbed  by  any  dream  of  where  he  was 
to  come.  But  the  river  had  an  awful  look,  the  buildings  on 
the  banks  were  mufiled  in  black  shrouds,  and  the  reflected 
lights  seemed  to  originate  deep  in  the  water,  as  if  the  spectres 
of  suicides  were  holding  them  to  show  where  they  went  down. 
The  wild  moon  and  clouds  were  as  restless  as  an  evil  conscience 
in  a tumbled  bed,  and  the  very  shadow  of  the  immensity  of 
London  seemed  to  lie  oppressively  upon  the  river. 

Between  the  bridge  and  the  two  great  theatres,  there  was 
but  the  distance  of  a few  hundred  paces,  so  the  theatres  came 
next.  Grim  and  black  within,  at  night,  those  great  dry  Wells, 
and  lonesome  to  imagine,  with  the  rows  of  faces  faded  out, 
the  lights  extinguished,  and  the  seats  all  empty.  One  would 
think  that  nothing  in  them  knew  itself  at  such  a time  but 
Yorick’s  skull.  In  one  of  my  night  walks,  as  the  church 
steeples  were  shaking  the  March  winds  and  rain  with  the 
strokes  of  Four,  I passed  the  outer  boundary  of  one  of  these 
great  deserts,  and  entered  it.  With  a dim  lantern  in  my 
hand,  I groped  my  well-known  way  to  the  stage  and  looked 
over  the  orchestra  — which  was  like  a great  grave  dug  for  a 
time  of  pestilence  — into  the  void  beyond.  A dismal  cavern 
of  an  immense  aspect,  with  the  chandelier  gone  dead  like 
everything  else,  and  nothing  visible  through  mist  and  fog  and 
space,  but  tiers  of  winding-sheets.  The  ground  at  my  feet, 
where,  when  last  there,  I had  seen  the  peasantry  of  Naples 
dancing  among  the  vines,  reckless  of  the  burning  mountain 


138 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


which  threatened  to  overwhelm  them,  was  now  in  possession 
of  a strong  serpent  of  engine-hose,  watchfully  lying  in  wait 
for  the  serpent  Fire,  and  ready  to  fly  at  it  if  it  showed  its 
forked  tongue.  A ghost  of  a watchman,  carrying  a faint 
corpse  candle,  haunted  the  distant  upper  gallery  and  flitted 
away.  Eetiring  within  the  proscenium,  and  holding  my  light 
above  my  head  towards  the  rolled-up  curtain  — green  no  more, 
but  black  as  ebony  — my  sight  lost  itself  in  a gloomy  vault, 
showing  faint  indications  in  it  of  a shipwreck  of  canvas  and 
cordage.  Methought  I felt  much  as  a diver  might,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea. 

In  those  small  hours  when  there  was  no  movement  in  the 
streets,  it  afforded  matter  for  reflection  to  take  Newgate  in 
the  way,  and,  touching  its  rough  stone,  to  think  of  the  prison- 
ers in  their  sleep,  and  then  to  glance  in  at  the  lodge  over  the 
spiked  wicket,  and  see  the  fire  and  light  of  the  watching 
turnkeys,  on  the  white  wall.  Not  an  inappropriate  time 
either,  to  linger  by  that  wicked  little  Debtor’s  Door  — shut- 
ting tighter  than  any  other  door  one  ever  saw  — which  has 
been  Death’s  Door  to  so  many.  In  the  days  of  the  uttering 
of  forged  one-pound  notes  by  people  tempted  up  from  the 
country,  how  many  hundreds  of  wretched  creatures  of  both 
sexes  — many  quite  innocent  — swung  out  of  a pitiless  and 
inconsistent  world,  with  the  tower  of  yonder  Christian  church 
of  Saint  Sepulchre  monstrously  before  their  eyes ! Is  there 
any  haunting  of  the  Bank  Parlor,  by  the  remorseful  souls 
of  old  directors,  in  the  nights  of  these  later  days,  I wonder, 
or  is  it  as  quiet  as  this  degenerate  Aceldama  of  an  Old  Bailey  ? 

To  walk  on  to  the  Bank,  lamenting  the  good  old  times  and 
bemoaning  the  present  evil  period,  would  be  an  easy  next 
step,  so  I would  take  it,  and  would  make  my  houseless  circuit 
of  the  Bank,  and  give  a thought  to  the  treasure  within ; like- 
wise to  the  guard  of  soldiers  passing  the  night  there,  and 
nodding  over  the  fire.  Next,  I went  to  Billingsgate,  in  some 
hope  of  market-people,  but  it  proving  as  yet  too  early,  crossed 
London  Bridge  and  got  down  by  the  water-side  on  the  Surrey 
shore  among  the  buildings  of  the  great  brewery.  There  was 
plenty  going  on  at  the  brewery ; and  the  reek,  and  the  smell 
of  grains,  and  the  rattling  pf  the  plump  dray  horses  at  their 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


139 


mangers,  were  capital  company.  Quite  refreshed  by  having 
mingled  with  this  good  society,  I made  a new  start  with  a 
new  heart,  setting  the  old  King’s  Bench  prison  before  me  for 
my  next  object,  and  resolving,  when  I should  come  to  the 
wall,  to  think  of  poor  Horace  Kinch,  and  the  Dry  Bot  in 
men. 

A very  curious  disease  the  Dry  Bot  in  men,  and  difficult  to 
detect  the  beginning  of.  It  had  carried  Horace  Kinch  inside 
the  wall  of  the  old  King’s  Bench  prison,  and  it  had  carried 
him  out  with  his  feet  foremost.  He  was  a likely  man  to  look 
at,  in  the  prime  of  life,  well-to-do,  as  clever  as  he  needed 
to  be,  and  popular  among  many  friends.  He  was  suitably 
married,  and  had  healthy  and  pretty  children.  But,  like 
some  fair-looking  houses  or  fair-looking  ships,  he  took  the 
Dry  Bot.  The  first  strong  external  revelation  of  the  Dry 
Bot  in  men,  is  a tendency  to  lurk  and  lounge ; to  be  at  street 
corners  without  intelligible  reason;  to  be  going  anywhere 
when  met ; to  be  about  many  places  rather  than  at  any ; to 
do  nothing  tangible,  but  to  have  an  intention  of  performing 
a variety  of  intangible  duties  to-morrow  or  the  day  after. 
When  this  manifestation  of  the  disease  is  observed,  the 
observer  will  usually  connect  it  with  a vague  impression  once 
formed  or  received,  that  the  patient  was  living  a little  too 
hard.  He  will  scarcely  have  had  leisure  to  turn  it  over  in 
his  mind  and  form  the  terrible  suspicion  Dry  Bot,”  when 
he  will  notice  a change  for  the  worse  in  the  patient’s  appear- 
ance: a certain  slovenliness  and  deterioration,  which  is  not 
poverty,  nor  dirt,  nor  intoxication,  nor  ill-health,  but  simply 
Dry  Bot.  To  this,  succeeds  a smell  as  of  strong  waters,  in 
the  morning ; to  that,  a looseness  respecting  money ; to  that, 
a stronger  smell  as  of  strong  waters,  at  all  times ; to  that,  a 
looseness  respecting  everything;  to  that,  a trembling  of  the 
limbs,  somnolency,  misery,  and  crumbling  to  pieces.  As  it  is 
in  wood,  so  it  is  in  men.  Dry  Bot  advances  at  a compound 
usury  quite  incalculable.  A plank  is  found  infected  with  it, 
and  the  whole  structure  is  devoted.  Thus  it  had  been  with 
the  unhappy  Horace  Kinch,  lately  buried  by  a small  subscrip- 
tion. Those  who  knew  him  had  not  nigh  done  saying,  So 
well  off,  so  comfortably  established,  with  such  hope  before 


140 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


him  — and  yet,  it  is  feared,  with  a slight  touch  of  Dry  Rot ! 
when  lo ! the  man  was  all  Dry  Rot  and  dust. 

From  the  dead  wall  associated  on  those  houseless  nights 
with  this  too  common  story,  I chose  next  to  wander  by  Beth- 
lehem Hospital ; partly,  because  it  lay  on  my  road  round  to 
Westminster;  partly,  because  I had  a night  fancy  in  my 
head  which  could  be  best  pursued  within  sight  of  its  walls 
and  dome.  And  the  fancy  was  this  : Are  not  the  sane  and 
insane  equal  at  night  as  the  sane  lie  a-dreaming  ? Are  not 
all  of  us  outside  this  hospital,  who  dream,  more  or  less  in  the 
condition  of  those  inside  it,  every  night  of  our  lives  ? Are  we 
not  nightly  persuaded,  as  they  daily  are,  that  we  associate 
preposterously  with  kings  and  queens,  emperors  and  em- 
presses, and  notabilities  of  all  sorts  ? Do  we  not  nightly 
jumble  events  and  personages  and  times  and  places,  as  these 
do  daily  ? Are  we  not  sometimes  troubled  by  our  own  sleep- 
ing inconsistencies,  and  do  we  not  vexedly  try  to  account  for 
them  or  excuse  them,  just  as  these  do  sometimes  in  respect  of 
their  waking  delusions  ? Said  an  afflicted  man  to  me,  when  I 
was  last  in  a hospital  like  this,  Sir,  I can  frequently  fly.’’ 
I was  half  ashamed  to  reflect  that  so  could  I — by  night. 
Said  a woman  to  me  on  the  same  occasion,  Queen  Victoria 
frequently  comes  to  dine  with  me,  and  her  Majesty  and  I 
dine  off  peaches  and  macaroni  in  our  nightgowns,  and  his 
Royal  Highness  the  Prince  Consort  does  us  the  honor  to 
make  a third  on  horseback  in  a Field-Marshal’s  uniform.” 
Could  I refrain  from  reddening  with  consciousness  when  I 
remembered  the  amazing  royal  parties  I myself  had  given 
(at  night),  the  unaccountable  viands  I had  put  on  table,  and 
my  extraordinary  manner  of  conducting  myself  on  those  dis- 
tinguished occasions  ? I wonder  that  the  great  master  who 
knew  everything,  when  he  called  Sleep  the  death  of  each 
day’s  life,  did  not  call  Dreams  the  insanitv  of  each  day’s 
sanity. 

By  this  time  I had  left  the  Hospital  behind  me,  and  was 
again  setting  towards  the  river ; and  in  a short  breathing 
space  I was  on  Westminster  Bridge,  regaling  my  houseless 
eyes  with  the  external  walls  of  the  British  Parliament  — the 
perfection  of  a stupendous  institution,  I know,  and  the  ad- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


141 


miration  of  all  surrounding  nations  and  succeeding  ages,  I do 
not  doubt  but  perhaps  a little  the  better  now  and  then,  for 
being  pricked  up  to  its  work.  Turning  off  into  Old  Palace- 
yard,  the  Courts  of  law  kept  me  company  for  a quarter  of  an 
hour ; hinting  in  low  whispers  what  numbers  of  people  they 
were  keeping  awake,  and  bow  intensely  wretched  and  horrible 
they  were  rendering  the  small  hours  to  unfortunate  suitors. 
Westminster  Abbey  was  fine  gloomy  society  for  another 
quarter  of  an  hour ; suggesting  a wonderful  procession  of  its 
dead  among  the  dark  arches  and  pillars,  each  century  more 
amazed  by  the  century  following  it  than  by  all  the  centuries 
going  before.  And  indeed  in  those  houseless  night  walks  — 
which  even  included  cemeteries  where  watchman  went  round 
among  the  graves  at  stated  times,  and  moved  the  tell-tale 
handle  of  an  index  which  recorded  that  they  had  touched  it 
at  such  an  hour  — it  was  a solemn  consideration  what  enormous 
hosts  of  dead  belong  to  one  old  great  city,  and  how,  if  they 
were  raised  while  the  living  slept,  there  would  not  be  the 
space  of  a pin’s  point  in  all  the  streets  and  ways  for  the 
living  to  come  out  into.  Not  only  that,  but  the  vast  armies 
of  dead  would  overflow  the  hills  and  valleys  beyond  the  city, 
and  would  stretch  away  all  round  it,  God  knows  how  far. 

When  a church  clock  strikes,  on  houseless  ears  in  the  dead 
of  the  night,  it  may  be  at  first  mistaken  for  company  and 
hailed  as  such.  But,  as  the  spreading  circles  of  vibration, 
which  you  may  perceive  at  such  a time  with  great  clearness, 
go  opening  out,  for  ever  and  ever  afterwards  widening  perhaps 
(as  the  philosopher  has  suggested)  in  eternal  space,  the  mis- 
take is  rectified  and  the  sense  of  loneliness  is  profounder. 
Once  — it  was  after  leaving  the  Abbey  and  turning  my  face 
north  — I came  to  the  great  steps  of  St.  Martin’s  church  as 
the  clock  was  striking  Three.  Suddenly,  a thing  that  in  a 
moment  more  I should  have  trodden  upon  without  seeing, 
rose  up  at  my  feet  with  a cry  of  loneliness  and  houselessness, 
struck  out  of  it  by  the  bell,  the  like  of  which  I never  heard. 
We  then  stood  face  to  face  looking  at  one  another,  frightened 
by  one  another.  The  creature  was  like  a beetle-browed  hair- 
lipped youoh  of  twenty,  and  it  had  a loose  bundle  of  rags  on, 
which  it  held  together  with  one  of  its  hands.  It  shivered 


142 


THE  UNC02I3IEECIAL  TBAVELLEB. 


from  head  to  foot,  and  its  teeth  chattered,  and  as  it  stared  at 
me  — persecutor,  devil,  ghost,  whatever  it  thought  me — it 
made  with  its  whining  mouth  as  if  it  were  snapping  at  me, 
like  a worried  dog.  Intending  to  give  this  ugly  object,  money, 
I put  out  my  hand  to  stay  it  — for  it  recoiled  as  it  whined  and 
snapped  — and  laid  my  hand  upon  its  shoulder.  Instantly, 
it  twisted  out  of  its  garment,  like  the  young  man  in  the  New 
Testament,  and  left  me  standing  alone  with  its  rags  in  my 
hand. 

Covent-garden  Market,  when  it  was  market  morning,  was 
wonderful  company.  The  great  wagons  of  cabbages,  with 
growers’  men  and  boys  lying  asleep  under  them,  and  with 
sharp  dogs  from  market-garden  neighborhoods  looking  after 
the  whole,  were  as  good  as  a party.  But  one  of  the  worst 
night  sights  I know  in  London,  is  to  be  found  in  the  children 
who  prowl  about  this  place  ; who  sleep  in  the  baskets,  light 
for  the  offal,  dart  at  any  object  they  think  they  can  lay  their 
thieving  hands  on,  dive  under  the  carts  and  barrows,  dodge 
the  constables,  and  are  perpetually  making  a blunt  pattering 
on  the  pavement  of  the  Piazza  with  the  rain  of  their  naked 
feet.  A painful  and  unnatural  result  comes  of  the  comparison 
one  is  forced  to  institute  between  the  growth  of  corruption  as 
displayed  in  the  so  much  improved  and  cared  for  fruits  of  the 
earth,  and  the  growth  of  corruption  as  displayed  in  these  all 
uncared  for  (except  inasmuch  as  ever-hunted)  savages. 

There  was  early  coffee  to  be  got  about  Co  vent-garden 
Market,  and  that  was  more  company  — warm  company,  too, 
which  was  better.  Toast  of  a very  substantial  quality,  was 
likewise  procurable : though  the  tousled-headed  man  who 
made  it,  in  an  inner  chamber  within  the  coffee-room,  hadn’t 
got  his  coat  on  yet,  and  was  so  heavy  with  sleep  that  in  every 
interval  of  toast  and  coffee  he  went  off  anew  behind  the  par- 
tition into  complicated  cross-roads  of  choke  and  snore,  and 
lost  his  way  directly.  Into  one  of  these  establishments 
(among  the  earliest)  near  Bow  Street,  -there  came  one  morning 
as  I sat  over  my  houseless  cup,  pondering  where  to  go  next, 
a man  in  a high  and  long  snuff-colored  coat,  and  shoes,  and, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  nothing  else  but  a hat,  who  took  out 
of  his  hat  a large  cold  meat  pudding;  a meat  pudding  so 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


143 


large  that  it  was  a very  tight  fit,  and  brought  the  lining  of 
the  hat  out  with  it.  This  mysterious  man  was  known  by  his 
pudding,  for  on  his  entering,  the  man  of  sleep  brought  him  a 
pint  of  hot  tea,  a small  loaf,  and  a large  knife  and  fork  and 
plate.  Left  to  himself  in  his  box,  he  stood  the  pudding  on 
the  bare  table,  and,  instead  of  cutting  it,  stabbed  it,  over- 
hand, with  the  knife,  like  a mortal  enemy;  then  took  the 
knife  out,  wiped  it  on  his  sleeve,  tore  the  pudding  asunder 
with  his  fingers,  and  ate  it  all  up.  The  remembrance  of  this 
man  with  the  pudding  remains  with  me  as  the  remembrance 
of  the  most  spectral  person  my  houselessness  encountered. 
Twice  only  was  I in  that  establishment,  and  twice  I saw  him 
stalk  in  (as  I should  say,  just  out  of  bed,  and  presently  going 
back  to  bed),  take  out  his  pudding,  stab  his  pudding,  wipe  the 
dagger,  and  eat  his  pudding  all  up.  He  was  a man  whose 
figure  promised  cadaverousness,  but  who  had  an  excessively 
red  face,  though  shaped  like  a horse’s.  On  the  second  occa- 
sion of  my  seeing  him,  he  said,  huskily  to  the  man  of  sleep. 
Am  I red  to-night  ? ” — You  are,”  he  uncompromisingly 
answered.  My  mother,”  said  the  spectre,  was  a red-faced 
woman  that  liked  drink,  and  I looked  at  her  hard  when  she 
laid  in  her  coffin,  and  I took  the  complexion.”  Somehow,  the 
pudding  seemed  an  unwholesome  pudding  after  that,  and  I 
put  myself  in  its  way  no  more. 

When  there  was  no  market,  or  when  I wanted  variety,  a 
railway  terminus  with  the  morning  mails  coming  in,  was 
remunerative  compan}^  But  like  most  of  the  company  to  be 
had  in  this  world,  it  lasted  only  a very  short  time.  The 
station  lamps  would  burst  out  ablaze,  the  porters  would 
emerge  from  places  of  concealment,  the  cabs  and  trucks  would 
rattle  to  their  places  (the  post-office  carts  were  already  in 
theirs),  and,  finally,  the  bell  would  strike  up,  and  the  train 
would  come  banging  in.  But  there  were  few  passengers  and 
little  luggage,  and  everything  scuttled  away  with  the  greatest 
expedition.  The  locomotive  post-offices,  with  their  great  nets 
— as  if  they  had  been  dragging  the  country  for  bodies  — 
would  fly  open  as  to  their  doors,  and  would  disgorge  a smell 
of  lamp,  an  exhausted  clerk,  a guard  in  a red  coat,  and  their 
bags  of  letters ; the  engine  would  blow  and  heave  and  per- 


144 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


spire,  like  an  engine  wiping  its  forehead  and  saying  what  a run 
it  had  had  ; and  within  ten  minutes  the  lamps  were  out,  and  I 
was  houseless  and  alone  again. 

But  now,  there  weTe  driven  cattle  on  the  high  road  near, 
wanting  (as  cattle  always  do)  to  turn  into  the  midst  of  stone 
walls,  and  squeeze  themselves  through  six  inches’  width  of 
iron  railing,  and  getting  their  heads  down  (also  as  cattle 
always  do)  for  tossing-purchase  at  quite  imaginary  dogs,  and 
giving  themselves  and  every  devoted  creature  associated  with 
them  a most  extraordinary  amount  of  unnecessary  trouble. 
Now,  too,  the  conscious  gas  began  to  grow  pale  with  the 
knowledge  that  daylight  was  coming,  and  straggling  work- 
people were  already  in  the  streets,  and,  as  waking  life  had 
become  extinguished  with  the  last  pieman’s  sparks,  so  it 
began  to  be  rekindled  with  the  fires  of  the  first  street  corner 
breakfast-sellers.  And  so  by  faster  and  faster  degrees,  until 
the  last  degrees  were  very  fast,  the  day  came,  and  I was  tired 
and  could  sleep.  And  it  is  not,  as  I used  to  think,  going 
home  at  such  times,  the  least  wonderful  thing  in  London, 
that  in  the  real  desert  region  of  the  night,  the  houseless 
wanderer  is  alone  there.  I knew  well  enough  where  to  find 
Vice  and  Misfortune  of  all  kinds,  if  I had  chosen ; but  they 
were  put  out  of  sight,  and  my  houselessness  had  many  miles 
upon  miles  of  streets  in  which  it  could,  and  did,  have  its  own 
solitary  way. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


145 


XIV. 

CHAMBERS. 

Having  occasion  to  transact  some  business  with  a solicitor 
who  occupies  a highly  suicidal  set  of  chambers  in  Gray’s  Inn, 
I afterwards  took  a turn  in  the  large  square  of  that  stronghold 
of  Melancholy,  reviewing,  with  congenial  surroundings,  my 
experiences  of  Chambers. 

I began,  as  was  natural,  with  the  Chambers  I had  just  left. 
They  were  an  upper  set  on  a rotten  staircase,  with  a mysteri- 
ous bunk  or  bulkhead  on  the  landing  outside  them,  of  a rather 
nautical  and  Screw  Collier-like  appearance  than  otherwise,  and 
painted  an  intense  black.  Many  dusty  years  have  jjassed  since 
the  appropriation  of  this  Davy  Jones’s  locker  to  any  purpose, 
and  during  the  whole  period  within  the  memory  of  living  man, 
it  has  been  hasped  and  padlocked.  I cannot  quite  satisfy  my 
mind  whether  it  was  originally  meant  for  the  reception  of 
coals,  or  bodies,  or  as  a place  of  temporary  security  for  the 
plunder  looted  ” by  laundresses ; but  I incline  to  the  last 
opinion.  It  is  about  breast  high,  and  usually  serves  as  a bulk 
for  defendants  in  reduced  circumstances  to  lean  against  and 
ponder  at,  when  they  come  on  the  hopeful  errand  of  trying  to 
make  an  arrangement  without  money  — under  which  auspicious 
circumstances  it  mostly  happens  that  the  legal  gentleman  they 
want  to  see,  is  much  engaged,  and  they  pervade  the  staircase 
for  a considerable  period.  Against  this  opposing  bulk,  in  the 
absurdest  manner,  the  tomb-like  outer  door  of  the  solicitor’s 
chambers  (which  is  also  of  an  intense  black)  stands  in  dark 
ambush,  half  open,  and  half  shut,  all  day.  The  solicitor’s 
apartments  are  three  in  number ; consisting  of  a slice,  a cell, 
and  a wedge.  The  slice  is  assigned  to  the  two  clerks,  the  cell 
is  occupied  by  the  principal,  and  the  wedge  is  devoted  to  stray 
papers,  old  game-baskets  from  the  country,  a washing-stand, 
and  a model  of  a patent  Ship’s  Caboose  which  was  exhibited 


146 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TEAVELLER, 


in  Chancery  at  the  commencement  of  the  present  century  on 
an  application  for  an  injunction  to  restrain  infringement.  At 
about  half-past  nine  on  every  week-day  morning,  the  younger 
of  the  two  clerks  (who,  I have  reason  to  believe,  leads  the 
fashion  at  Pentonville  in  the  articles  of  pipes  and  shirts)  may 
be  found  knocking  the  dust  out  of  his  official  door-key  on  the 
bunk  or  locker  before  mentioned ; and  so  exceedingly  subject 
to  dust  is  his  key,  and  so  very  retentive  of  that  superfluity, 
that  in  exceptional  summer  weather  when  a ray  of  sunlight 
has  fallen  on  the  locker  in  my  presence,  I have  noticed  its 
inexpressive  countenance  to  be  deeply  marked  by  a kind  of 
Bramah  erysipelas  or  smallpox. 

This  set  of  chambers  (as  I have  gradually  discovered,  when 
I have  had  restless  occasion  to  make  inquiries  or  leave  mes- 
sages, after  office  hours)  is  under  the  charge  of  a lady  named 
Sweeney,  in  figure  extremely  like  an  old  family  umbrella ; 
whose  dwelling  confronts  a dead  wall  in  a court  off  Gray’s 
Inn  Lane,  and  who  is  usually  fetched  into  the  passage  of  that 
bower,  when  wanted,  from  some  neighboring  home  of  industry, 
which  has  the  curious  property  of  imparting  an  inflammatory 
appearance  to  her  visage.  Mrs.  Sweeney  is  one  of  the  race  of 
professed  laundresses,  and  is  the  compiler  of  a remarkable 
manuscript  volume  entitled  Mrs.  Sweeney’s  Book,”  from 
which  much  curious  statistical  information  may  be  gathered 
respecting  the  high  prices  and  small  uses  of  soda,  soap,  sand, 
firewood,  and  other  such  articles.  I have  created  a legend  in 
my  mind  — and  consequently  I believe  it  with  the  utmost  per- 
tinacity— that  the  late  Mr.  Sweeney  was  a ticket-porter  under 
the  Honorable  Society  of  Gray’s  Inn,  and  that,  in  consideration 
of  his  long  and  valuable  services,  Mrs.  Sweeney  was  appointed 
to  her  present  post.  Bor  though  devoid  of  personal  charms,  I 
have  observed  this  lady  to  exercise  a fascination  over  the 
elderly  ticket-porter  mind  (particularly  under  the  gateway,  and 
in  corners  and  entries),  which  I can  only  refer  to  her  being 
one  of  the  fraternity,  yet  not  competing  with  it.  All  that 
need  be  said  concerning  this  set  of  chambers,  is  said,  when  I 
have  added  that  it  is  in  a large  double  house  in  Gray’s  Inn 
Square,  very  much  out  of  repair,  and  that  the  outer  portal  is 
ornamented  in  a hideous  manner  with  certain  stone  remains, 


LAUNDRESSES. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


147 


which  have  the  appearance  of  the  dismembered  bust,  torso, 
and  limbs  of  a petrified  bencher. 

Indeed,  I look  upon  Gray’s  Inn  generally  as  one  of  the 
most  depressing  institutions  in  brick  and  mortar,  known  to 
the  children  of  men.  Can  anything  be  more  dreary  than  its 
arid  Square,  Sahara  Desert  of  the  law,  Avith  the  ugly  old  tile- 
topped  tenements,  the  dirty  windows,  the  bills  To  Let  To  Let, 
the  doorposts  inscribed  like  gravestones,  the  crazy  gateway 
giving  upon  the  filthy  Lane,  the  scowling  iron-barred  prison- 
like passage  into  Verulam  buildings,  the  mouldy  red-nosed 
ticket-porters  with  little  coffin-plates  and  why  with  aprons, 
the  dry  hard  atomy-like  appearance  of  the  whole  dust-heap  ? 
When  my  uncommercial  travels  tend  to  this  dismal  spot,  my 
comfort  is  its  rickety  state.  Imagination  gloats  over  the  ful- 
ness of  time  when  the  staircases  shall  have  quite  tumbled 
down — they  are  daily  wearing  into  an  ill-savored  powder,  but 
have  not  quite  tumbled  down  yet  — when  the  last  old  prolix 
bencher  all  of  the  olden  time,  shall  have  been  got  out  of  an 
upper  window  by  means  of  a Fire  Ladder,  and  carried  off  to 
the  Holborn  Union;  when  the  last  clerk  shall  have  engrossed 
the  last  parchment  behind  the  last  splash  on  the  last  of  the 
mud-stained  windows,  which,  all  through  the  miry  year,  are 
pilloried  out  of  recognition  in  Gray’s  Inn  Lane.  Then,  shall 
a squalid  little  trench,  with  rank  grass  and  a pump  in  it,  lying 
between  the  coffee-house  and  South  Square,  be  wholly  given 
up  to  cats  and  rats,  and  not,  as  now,  have  its  empire  divided 
between  those  animals  and  a few  briefless  bipeds  — surely 
called  to  the  Bar  by  voices  of  deceiving  spirits,  seeing  that 
they  are  wanted  there  by  no  mortal  — who  glance  down,  Avith 
eyes  better  glazed  than  their  casements,  from  their  dreary  and 
lack-lustre  rooms.  Then  shall  the  way  FTor’  Westward,  now 
lying  under  a short  grim  colonnade  where  in  summer-time 
pounce  flies  from  law  stationering  windows  into  the  eyes  of 
laymen,  be  choked  with  rubbish  and  happily  become  impassa- 
ble. Then  shall  the  gardens  Avhere  turf,  trees,  and  gravel  wear 
a legal  livery  of  black,  run  rank,  and  pilgrims  go  to  Gorham- 
bury  to  see  Bacon’s  effigy  as  he  sat,  and  not  come  here  (which 
in  truth  they  seldom  do)  to  see  where  he  walked.  Then,  in  a 
word,  shall  the  old-established  vender  of  periodicals  sit  alone 


148 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


in  his  little  crib  of  a shop  behind  the  Holborn  Gate,  like  that 
lumbering  Marius  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  who  has  sat 
heavy  on  a thousand  million  of  similes. 

At  one  period  of  my  uncommercial  career  I much  frequented 
another  set  of  chambers  in  Gray’s  Inn  Square.  They  were 
what  is  familiarly  called  ^^a  top  set,”  and  all  the  eatables  and 
drinkables  introduced  into  them  acquired  a flavor  of  Cockloft. 
I have  known  an  unopened  Strasbourg  pate  fresh  from  Fortnum 
and  Mason’s,  to  draw  in  this  cockloft  tone  through  its  crockery 
dish,  and  become  penetrated  with  cockloft  to  the  core  of  its 
inmost  truffle  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  This,  however, 
was  not  the  most  curious  feature  of  those  chambers ; that,  con- 
sisted in  the  profound  conviction  entertained  by  my  esteemed 
friend  Parkle  (their  tenant)  that  they  were  clean.  Whether 
it  was  an  inborn  hallucination,  or  whether  it  was  imparted  to 
him  by  Mrs.  Miggot  the  laundress,  I never  could  ascertain. 
But,  I believe  he  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  upon  the  ques- 
tion. Now,  they  were  so  dirty  that  I could  take  off  the  dis- 
tinctest  impression  of  my  figure  on  any  article  of  furniture  by 
merely  lounging  upon  it  for  a few  moments ; and  it  used  to  be 
a private  amusement  of  mine  to  print  myself  off  — if  I may 
use  the  expression  — all  over  the  rooms.  It  was  the  first  large 
circulation  I had.  At  other  times  I have  accidentally  shaken 
a window  curtain  while  in  animated  conversation  with  Parkle, 
and  struggling  insects  which  were  certainly  red,  and  were  cer- 
tainly not  ladybirds,  have  dropped  on  the  back  of  my  hand. 
Yet  Parkle  lived  in  that  top  set  years,  bound  body  and  soul 
to  the  superstition  that  they  were  clean.  He  used  to  say,  when 
congratulated  upon  them,  Well,  they  are  not  like  chambers 
in  one  respect,  you  know ; they  are  clean.”  Concurrently,  he 
had  an  idea  which  he  could  never  explain,  that  Mrs.  Miggot 
was  in  some  way  connected  with  the  Church.  When  he  was  in 
particularly  good  spirits,  he  used  to  believe  thak  a deceased 
uncle  of  hers  had  been  a Dean  ; when  he  was  poorly  and  low, 
he  believed  that  her  brother  had  been  a Curate.  I and  Mrs. 
Miggot  (she  was  a genteel  woman)  were  on  confidential  terms, 
but  I never  knew  her  to  commit  herself  to  any  distinct  asser- 
tion on  the  subject;  she  merely  claimed  a proprietorship  in 
the  Church,  by  looking  when  it  was  mentioned,  as  if  the  refer- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


149 


ence  awakened  the  slumbering  Past,  and  were  personal.  It 
may  have  been  his  amiable  confidence  in  Mrs.  MiggoPs  better 
days  that  inspired  my  friend  with  his  delusion  respecting  the 
chambers,  but  he  never  wavered  in  his  fidelity  to  it  for  a mo- 
ment, though  he  wallowed  in  dirt  seven  years. 

Two  of  the  windows  of  these  chambers  looked  down  into 
the  garden ; and  we  have  sat  up  there  together  many  a sum- 
mer evening,  saying  how  pleasant  it  was,  and  talking  of  many 
things.  To  my  intimacy  with  that  top  set,  I am  indebted  for 
three  of  my  liveliest  personal  impressions  of  the  loneliness  of 
life  in  chambers.  They  shall  follow  here,  in  order ; first, 
second,  and  third. 

First.  My  Gray’s  Inn  friend,  on  a time,  hurt  one  of  his 
legs,  and  it  became  seriously  inflamed.  Not  knowing  of  his 
indisposition,  I was  on  my  way  to  visit  him  as  usual,  one 
summer  evening,  when  I was  much  surprised  by  meeting  a 
lively  leech  in  Field  Court,  Gray’s  Inn,  seemingly  on  his  way 
to  the  West  End  of  London.  As  the  leech  was  alone,  and 
was  of  course  unable  to  explain  his  position,  even  if  he  had 
been  inclined  to  do  so  (which  he  had  not  the  appearance  of 
being),  I passed  him  and  went  on.  Turning  the  corner  of 
Gray’s  Inn  Square,  I was  beyond  expression  amazed  by  meet- 
ing another  leech  — also  entirely  alone,  and  also  proceeding 
in  a westerly  direction,  though  with  less  decision  of  purpose. 
Eliminating  on  this  extraordinary  circumstance,  and  en- 
deavoring to  remember  whether  I had  ever  read,  in  the 
Philosophical  Transactions  or  any  work  on  Natural  History, 
of  a migration  of  Leeches,  I ascended  to  the  top  set,  past  the 
dreary  series  of  closed  outer  doors  of  offices  and  an  empty  set 
or  two,  which  intervened  between  that  lofty  region  and  the 
surface.  Entering  my  friend’s  rooms,  I found  him  stretched 
upon  his  back,  like  Prometheus  Bound,  with  a perfectly  de- 
mented ticket-porter  in  attendance  on  him  instead  of  the 
Vulture : which  helpless  individual,  who  was  feeble  and 
frightened,  and  had  (my  friend  explained  to  me,  in  great 
choler)  been  endeavoring  for  some  hours  to  apply  leeches  to 
his  leg,  and  as  yet  had  only  got  on  two  out  of  twenty.  To 
this  Unfortunate’s  distraction  between  a damp  cloth  on  which 
he  had  placed  the  leeches  to  freshen  them,  and  the  wrathful 


150 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


adjurations  of  my  friend  to  Stick  ’em  on,  sir ! ” T referred 
the  phenomena  I had  encountered : the  rather  as  two  fine 
specimens  were  at  that  moment  going  out  at  the  door,  while 
a general  insurrection  of  the  rest  was  in  progress  on  the 
table.  After  a while  our  united  efforts  prevailed,  and,  when 
the  leeches  came  off  and  had  recovered  their  spirits,  we  care- 
fully tied  them  up  in  a decanter.  But  I never  heard  more  of 
them  than  that  they  were  all  gone  next  morning,  and  that 
the  Out-of-door  young  man  of  Bickle  Bush  and  Bodger,  on 
the  ground  floor,  had  been  bitten  and  blooded  by  some 
creature  not  identified.  They  never  took  ” on  Mrs.  Miggot, 
the  laundress ; but,  I have  always  preserved  fresh,  the  belief 
that  she  unconsciously  carried  several  about  her,  until  they 
gradually  found  openings  in  life. 

Second.  On  the  same  staircase  with  my  friend  Parkle,  and 
on  the  same  floor,  there  lived  a man  of  law  who  pursued  his 
business  elsewhere,  and  used  those  chambers  as  his  place  of 
residence.  For  three  or  four  years,  Parkle  rather  knew  of 
him  than  knew  him,  but  after  that  — for  Englishmen  — short 
pause  of  consideration,  they  began  to  speak.  Parkle  ex- 
changed words  with  him  in  his  private  character  only,  and 
knew  nothing  of  his  business  ways,  or  means.  He  was  a 
man  a good  deal  about  town,  but  always  alone.  We  used  to 
remark  to  one  another,  that  although  we  often  encountered 
him  in  theatres,  concert  rooms,  and  similar  public  places,  he 
was  always  alone.  Yet  he  was  not  a gloomy  man,  and  was 
of  a decidedly  conversational  turn ; insomuch  that  he  would 
sometimes  of  an  evening  lounge  with  a cigar  in  his  mouth, 
half  in  and  half  out  of  Parkle’s  rooms,  and  discuss  the  topics 
of  the  day  by  the  hour.  He  used  to  hint  on  these  occasions 
that  he  had  four  faults  to  find  with  life ; firstly,  that  it 
obliged  a man  to  be  always  winding  up  his  watch ; secondly, 
that  London  was  too  small ; thirdly,  that  it  therefore  wanted 
variety  ; fourthly,  that  there  was  too  much  dust  in  it.  There 
was  so  much  dust  in  his  own  faded  chambers,  certainly,  that 
they  reminded  me  of  a sepulchre,  furnished  in  prophetic 
anticipation  of  the  present  time,  which  had  newly  been 
brought  to  light,  after  having  remained  buried  a few  thou- 
sand years.  One  dry  hot  autumn  evening  at  twilight,  this 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


151 


man,  being  then  five  years  turned  of  fifty,  looked  in  upon 
Parkle  in  his  usual  lounging  way,  with  his  cigar  in  his  mouth 
as  usual,  and  said,  I am  going  out  of  town.’’  As  he  never 
went  out  of  town,  Parkle  said,  Oh  indeed ! At  last  ? ” — Yes,” 
says  he,  at  last.  For  what  is  a man  to  do  ? London  is  so 
small ! If  you  go  West,  you  come  to  Hounslow.  If  you  go 
East,  you  come  to  Bow.  If  you  go  South,  there’s  Brixton  or 
Norwood.  If  you  go  North,  you  can’t  get  rid  of  Barnet. 
Then,  the  monotony  of  all  the  streets,  streets,  streets  — and  of 
all  the  roads,  roads,  roads  — and  the  dust,  dust,  dust ! ” When 
he  had  said  this,  he  wished  Parkle  a good-evening,  but  came 
back  again  and  said,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand,  ^^Oh,  I 
really  cannot  go  on  winding  up  this  watch  over  and  over 
again ; I wish  you  would  take  care  of  it.”  So,  Parkle  laughed 
and  consented,  and  the  man  went  out  of  town.  The  man  re- 
mained out  of  town  so  long,  that  his  letter-box  became  choked, 
and  no  more  letters  could  be  got  into  it,  and  they  began  to 
be  left  at  the  lodge  and  to  accumulate  there.  At  last  the 
head-porter  decided,  on  conference  with  the  steward,  to  use 
his  master  key  and  look  into  the  chambers,  and  give  them 
the  benefit  of  a whiff  of  air.  Then,  it  was  found  that  he  had 
hanged  himself  to  his  bedstead,  and  had  left  this  written  mem- 
orandum : I should  prefer  to  be  cut  down  by  my  neighbor 
and  friend  (if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so),  H.  Parkle, 
Esq.”  This  was  an  end  of  Parkle’s  occupancy  of  chambers. 
He  went  into  lodgings  immediately. 

Third.  While  Parkle  lived  in  Gray’s  Inn,  and  I myself 
was  uncommercially  preparing  for  the  Bar  — which  is  done,  as 
everybody  knows,  by  having  a frayed  old  gown  put  on  in  a 
pantry  by  an  old  woman  in  a chronic  state  of  Saint  Anthony’s 
fire  and  dropsy,  and,  so  decorated,  bolting  a bad  dinner  in  a 
party  of  four,  whereof  each  individual  mistrusts  the  other 
three  — I say,  while  these  things  were,  there  was  a certain 
elderly  gentleman  who  lived  in  a court  of  the  Temple,  and 
was  a great  judge  and  lover  of  port  wine.  Every  day  he 
dined  at  his  club  and  drank  his  bottle  or  two  of  port  wine, 
and  every  night  came  home  to  the  Temple  and  went  to  bed  in 
his  lonely  chambers.  This  had  gone  on  many  years  without 
variation,  when  one  night  he  had  a fit  on  coming  home,  and 


152 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


fell  and  cut  his  head  deep,  but  partly  recovered  and  groped 
about  in  the  dark  to  find  the  door.  When  he  was  afterwards 
discovered,  dead,  it  was  clearly  established  by  the  marks  of 
his  hands  about  the  room  that  he  must  have  done  so.  Now, 
this  chanced  on  the  night  of  Christmas  Eve,  and  over  him 
lived  a young  fellow  who  had  sisters  and  young  country 
friends,  and  who  gave  them  a little  party  that  night,  in  the 
course  of  which  they  played  at  Blindman’s  Buff.  They  played 
that  game,  for  their  greater  sport,  by  the  light  of  the  fire 
only;  and  once,  when  they  were  all  quietly  rustling  and 
stealing  about,  and  the  blindman  was  trying  to  pick  out  the 
prettiest  sister  (for  which  I am  far  from  blaming  him),  some- 
body cried.  Hark  ! The  man  below  must  be  playing  Blind- 
man’s  Buff  by  himself  to-night ! They  listened,  and  they 
heard  sounds  of  some  one  falling  about  and  stumbling  against 
furniture,  and  they  all  laughed  at  the  conceit,  and  went  on 
with  their  play,  more  light-hearted  and  merry  than  ever. 
Thus,  those  two  so  different  games  of  life  and  death  were 
played  out  together,  blindfolded,  in  the  two  sets  of  chambers. 

Such  are  the  occurrences,  which,  coming  to  my  knowledge, 
imbued  me  long  ago  with  a strong  sense  of  the  loneliness  of 
chambers.  There  was  a fantastic  illustration  to  much  the 
same  purpose  implicitly  believed  by  a strange  sort  of  man  now 
dead,  whom  I knew  when  I had  not  quite  arrived  at  legal 
years  of  discretion,  though  I was  already  in  the  uncommercial 
line. 

This  was  a man  who,  though  not  more  than  thirty,  had 
seen  the  world  in  divers  irreconcilable  capacities  — had  been 
an  officer  in  a South  American  regiment  among  other  odd 
things  — but  had  not  achieved  much  in  any  way  of  life,  and 
was  in  debt,  and  in  hiding.  He  occupied  chambers  of  the 
dreariest  nature  in  Lyons  Inn ; his  name,  however,  was  not 
up  on  the  door,  or  doorpost,  but  in  lieu  of  it  stood  the  name 
of  a friend  who  had  died  in  the  chambers,  and  had  given  him 
the  furniture.  The  story  arose  out  of  the  furniture,  and  was 
to  this  effect : — Let  the  former  holder  of  the  chambers,  whose 
name  was  still  upon  the  door  and  doorpost,  be  Mr.  Testator. 

Mr.  Testator  took  a set  of  chambers  in  Lyons  Inn  when  he 
had  but  very  scanty  furniture  for  his  bedroom,  and  none  for 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


153 


his  sitting-room.  He  had  lived  some  wintry  months  in  this 
condition,  and  had  found  it  very  bare  and  cold.  One  night, 
past  midnight,  when  he  sat  writing  and  still  had  writing  to 
do  that  must  be  done  before  he  went  to  bed,  he  found  himself 
out  of  coals.  He  had  coals  down-stairs,  but  had  never  been 
to  his  cellar ; however  the  cellar-key  was  on  his  mantel-shelf, 
and  if  he  went  down  and  opened  the  cellar  it  fitted,  he  might 
fairly  assume  the  coals  in  that  cellar  to  be  his.  As  to  his 
laundress,  she  lived  among  the  coal-wagons  and  Thames 
watermen  — for  there  were  Thames  watermen  at  that  time  — 
in  some  unknown  rat-hole  by  the  river,  down  lanes  and  alleys 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Strand.  As  to  any  other  person  to 
meet  him  or  obstruct  him,  Lyons  Inn  was  dreaming,  drunk, 
maudlin,  moody,  betting,  brooding  over  bill-discounting,  or 
renewing  — asleep  or  awake,  minding  its  own  affairs.  Mr. 
Testator  took  his  coal-scuttle,  in  one  hand,  his  candle  and  key 
in  the  other,  and  descended  to  the  dismallest  underground 
dens  of  Lyons  Inn,  where  the  late  vehicles  in  the  streets  be- 
came thunderous,  and  all  the  water-pipes  in  the  neighbor- 
hood seemed  to  have  Macbeth’s  Amen  sticking  in  their  throats 
and  to  be  trying  to  get  it  out.  After  groping  here  and  there 
among  low  doors  to  no  purpose,  Mr.  Testator  at  length  came 
to  a door  with  a rusty  padlock  which  his  key  fitted.  Getting 
the  door,  open  with  much  trouble,  and  looking  in,  he  found, 
no  coals,  but  a confused  pile  of  furniture.  Alarmed  by  this 
intrusion  on  another  man’s  property,  he  locked  the  door 
again,  found  his  own  cellar,  filled  his  scuttle,  and  returned 
up-stairs. 

But  the  furniture  he  had  seen,  ran  on  casters  across  and 
across  Mr.  Testator’s  mind  incessantly,  when,  in  the  chill  hour 
of  five  in  the  morning  he  got  to  bed.  He  particularly  wanted 
a table  to  write  at,  and  a table  expressly  made  to  be  written  at, 
had  been  the  piece  of  furniture  in  the  foreground  of  the  heap. 
When  his  laundress  emerged  from  her  burrow  in  the  morning 
tp  make  his  kettle  boil,  he  artfully  led  up  to  the  subject  of 
cellars  and  furniture ; but  the  two  ideas  had  evidently  no  con- 
nection in  her  mind.  When  she  left  him,  and  he  sat  at  his 
breakfast,  thinking  about  the  furniture,  he  recalled  the  rusty 
state  of  the  padlock,  and  inferred  that  the  furniture  must 


154 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLEB. 


have  been  stored  in  the  cellars  for  a long  time  — was  perhaps 
forgotten  — owner  dead,  perhaps  ? After  thinking  it  over, 
a few  days,  in  the  course  of  which  he  could  pump  nothing  out 
of  Lyons  Inn  about  the  furniture,  he  became  desperate,  and 
resolved  to  borrow  that  table.  He  did  so,  that  night.  He 
had  not  had  the  table  long,  when  he  determined  to  borrow  an 
easy-chair ; he  had  not  had  that  long,  when  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  borrow  a bookcase  ; then,  a couch  ; then,  a carpet  and 
rug.  By  that  time,  he  felt  he  was  in  furniture  stepped  in 
so  far,^^  as  that  it  could  be  no  worse  to  borrow  it  all.  Conse- 
quently, he  borrowed  it  all,  and  locked  up  the  cellar  for  good. 
He  had  always  locked  it,  after  every  visit.  He  had  carried 
up  every  separate  article  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  and,  at  the 
best,  had  felt  as  wicked  as  a Eesurrection  Man.  Every  article 
was  blue  and  furry  when  brought  into  his  rooms,  and  he  had 
had,  in  a murderous  and  guilty  sort  of  way,  to  polish  it  up 
while  London  slept. 

Mr.  Testator  lived  in  his  furnished  chambers  two  or  three 
years,  or  more,  and  gradually  lulled  himself  into  the  opinion 
that  the  furniture  was  his  own.  This  was  his  convenient  state 
of  mind  when,  late  one  night,  a step  came  up  the  stairs,  and 
a hand  passed  over  his  door,  feeling  for  his  knocker,  and  then 
one  deep  and  solemn  rap  was  rapped  that  might  have  been  a 
spring  in  Mr.  Testator’s  easy-chair  to  shoot  him  out  of  it;  so 
promptly  was  it  attended  with  that  effect. 

With  a candle  in  his  hand,  Mr.  Testator  went  to  the  door, 
and  found  there,  a very  pale  and  very  tall  man ; a man  who 
stooped;  a man  with  very  high  shoulders,  a very  narrow 
chest,  and  a very  red  nose ; a shabby-genteel  man.  He  was 
wrapped  in  a long  threadbare  black  coat,  fastened  up  the  front 
with  more  pins  than  buttons,  and  under  his  arm  he  squeezed 
an  umbrella  without  a handle,  as  if  he  were  playing  bagpipes. 
He  said,  I ask  your  pardon,  but  can  you  tell  me” — and 
stopped;  his  eyes  resting  on  some  object  within  the  chambers. 

Can  I tell  you  what  ? ” asked  Mr.  Testator,  noting  his 
stoppage  with  quick  alarm. 

ask  your  pardon,”  said  the  stranger,  ‘^but  — this  is  not 
the  inquiry  I was  going  to  make  — dol  see  in  there,  any  small 
article  of  property  belonging  to  me  ? ” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


155 


Mr.  Testator  was  beginning  to  stammer  that  he  was  not 
aware  — when  the  visitor  slipped  past  him,  into  the  chambers. 
There,  in  a goblin  way  which  froze  Mr.  Testator  to  the 
marrow,  he  examined,  first,  the  writing-table,  and  said. 
Mine  ; ’’  then,  the  easy-chair,  and  said,  Mine  ; ” then,  the 
bookcase,  and  said,  Mine  ; ’’  then,  turned  up  a corner  of  the 
carpet,  and  said,  Mine  ! in  a word,  inspected  every  item  of 
furniture  from  the  cellar,  in  succession,  and  said,  Mine ! ’’ 
Towards  the  end  of  this  investigation,  Mr.  Testator  perceived 
that  he  was  sodden  with  liquor,  and  that  the  liquor  was  gin. 
He  was  not  unsteady  with  gin,  either  in  his  speech  or  carriage  ; 
but  he  was  stiff  with  gin  in  both  particulars. 

Mr.  Testator  was  in  a dreadful  state,  for  (according  to  his 
making  out  of  the  story)  the  possible  consequences  of  what  he 
had  done  in  recklessness  and  hardihood,  flashed  upon  him  in 
their  fulness  for  the  first  time.  When  they  had  stood  gazing 
at  one  another  for  a little  while,  he  tremulously  began,  — 

Sir,  I am  conscious  that  the  fullest  explanation,  compen- 
sation, and  restitution,  are  your  due.  They  shall  be  yours. 
Allow  me  to  entreat  that,  without  temper,  without  even 
natural  irritation  on  your  part,  we  may  have  a little  ’’  — 

Drop  of  something  to  drink,’’  interposed  the  stranger, 
am  agreeable.” 

Mr.  Testator  had  intended  to  say,  ^^a  little  quiet  conversa- 
tion,” but  with  great  relief  of  mind  adopted  the  amendment. 
He  produced  a decanter  of  gin,  and  was  bustling  about  for 
hot  water  and  sugar,  when  he  found  that  his  visitor  had 
already  drunk  half  the  decanter’s  contents.  With  hot  water 
and.  sugar  the  visitor  drank  the  remainder  before  he  had  been 
an  hour  in  the  chambers  by  the  chimes  of  the  church  of  St. 
Mary  in  the  Strand ; and  during  the  process  he  frequently 
whispered  to  himself,  Mine  ! ” 

The  gin  gone,  and  Mr.  Testator  wondering  what  was  to 
follow  it,  the  visitor  rose  and  said,  with  increased  stiffness. 
At  what  hour  of  the  morning,  sir,  will  it  be  convenient  ? ” 
Mr.  Testator  hazarded,  ^^At  ten?”  — ^^Sir,”  said  the  visitor, 
at  ten,  to  the  moment,  I shall  be  here.”  He  then  contem- 
plated Mr.  Testator  somewhat  at  leisure,  and  said,  God  bless 
you  ! How  is  your  wife  ? ” Mr.  Testator  (who  never  had  a 


156 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


wife)  replied  with  much  feeling,  Deeply  anxious,  poor  soul, 
but  otherwise  well.’’  The  visitor  thereupon  turned  and  went 
away,  and  fell  twice  in  going  down-stairs.  From  that  hour 
he  was  never  heard  of.  Whether  he  was  a ghost,  or  a spectral 
illusion  of  conscience,  or  a drunken  man  who  had  no  business 
there,  or  the  drunken  rightful  owner  of  the  furniture,  with  a 
transitory  gleam  of  memory ; whether  he  got  safe  home,  or 
had  no  home  to  get  to ; whether  he  died  of  liquor  on  the  way, 
or  lived  in  liquor  ever  afterwards  ; he  never  was  heard  of 
more.  This  was  the  story,  received  with  the  furniture  and 
held  to  be  as  substantial,  by  its  second  possessor  in  an  upper 
set  of  chambers  in  grim  Lyons  Inn. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  of  chambers  in  general,  that  they 
must  have  been  built  for  chambers,  to  have  the  right  kind  of 
loneliness.  You  may  make  a great  dwelling-house  very 
lonely,  by  isolating  suites  of  rooms  and  calling  them  chambers, 
but  you  cannot  make  the  true  kind  of  loneliness.  In  dwelling- 
houses,  there  have  been  family  festivals ; children  have  grown 
in  them,  girls  have  bloomed  into  women  in  them,  courtships 
and  marriages  have  taken  place  in  them.  True  chambers 
never  were  young,  childish,  maidenly ; never  had  dolls  in 
them,  or  rocking-horses,  or  christenings,  or  betrothals,  or 
little  coffins.  Let  Gray’s  Inn  identify  the  child  who  first 
touched  hands  and  hearts  with  Eobinson  Crusoe,  in  any  one 
of  its  many  ^^sets,”  and  that  child’s  little  statue,  in  white 
marble  with  a golden  inscription,  shall  be  at  its  service,  at 
my  cost  and  charge,  as  a drinking-fountain  for  the  spirit,  to 
freshen  its  thirsty  square.  Let  Lincoln’s  produce  from  all 
its  houses,  a twentieth  of  the  procession  derivable  from  any 
dwelling-house  one-twentieth  of  its  age,  of  fair  young  brides 
who  married  for  love  and  hope,  not  settlements,  and  all 
the  Vice-Chancellors  shall  thenceforward  be  kept  in  nose- 
gays for  nothing,  on  application  to  the  writer  hereof.  It  is 
not  denied  that  on  the  terrace  of  the  Adelphi,  or  in  any  of 
the  streets  of  that  subterranean-stable-haunted  spot,  or  about 
Bedford  Eow,  or  James  Street  of  that  ilk  (a  gruesome  place), 
or  anywhere  among  the  neighborhoods  that  have  done  flower- 
ing and  have  run  to  seed,  you  may  find  Chambers  replete  with 
the  accommodations  of  Solitude,  Closeness,  and  Darkness, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


157 


where  you  may  be  as  low-spirited  as  in  the  genuine  article, 
and  might  be  as  easily  murdered,  with  the  placid  reputation 
of  having  merely  gone  down  to  the  seaside.  But,  the  many 
waters  of  life  did  run  musical  in  those  dry  channels  once ; — 
among  the  Inns,  never.  The  only  popular  legend  known  in 
relation  to  any  one  of  the  dull  family  of  Inns,  is  a dark  Old 
Bailey  whisper  concerning  Clement’s,  and  importing  how  the 
black  creature  who  holds  the  sun-dial  there,  was  a negro  who 
slew  his  master  and  built  the  dismal  pile  out  of  the  contents 
of  his  strong-box  — for  which  architectural  offence  alone  he 
ought  to  have  been  condemned  to  live  in  it.  But,  what  popu- 
lace would  waste  fancy  upon  such  a place,  or  on  New  Inn, 
Staple  Inn,  Barnard’s  Inn,  or  any  of  the  shabby  crew  ? 

The  genuine  laundress,  too,  is  an  institution  not  to  be  had 
in  its  entirety  out  of  and  away  from  the  genuine  Chambers. 
Again,  it  is  not  denied  that  you  may  be  robbed  elsewhere. 
Elsev/here  you  may  have  — for  money  — dishonesty,  drunken- 
ness, dirt,  laziness,  and  profound  incapacity.  But  the  veri- 
table shining-red-faced  shameless  laundress;  the  true  Mrs. 
Sweeney  — in  figure,  color,  texture,  and  smell,  like  the  old 
damp  family-umbrella;  the  tip-top  complicated  abomination 
of  stockings,  spirits,  bonnet,  limpness,  looseness,  and  larceny ; 
is  only  to  be  drawn  at  the  fountain-head.  Mrs.  Sweeney  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  individual  art.  It  requires  the  united 
efforts  of  several  men  to  insure  that  great  result,  and  it  is 
only  developed  in  perfection  under  an  Honorable  Society  and 
in  an  Inn  of  Court. 


158 


JHJE7  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XV. 

nurse’s  stories. 

There  are  not  many  places  that  I find  it  more  agreeable  to 
revisit  when  I am  in  an  idle  mood,  than  some  places  to  which 
I have  never  been.  For,  my  acquaintance  wfith  those  spots  is 
of  such  long  standing,  and  has  ripened  into  an  intimacy  of  so 
affectionate  a nature,  that  I take  a particular  interest  in  assur- 
ing myself  that  they  are  unchanged. 

I never  was  in  Eobinson  Crusoe’s  Island,  yet  I frequently 
return  there.  The  colony  he  established  on  it  soon  faded 
away,  and  it  is  uninhabited  by  any  descendants  of  the  grave 
and  courteous  Spaniards,  or  of  Will  Atkins  and  the  other 
mutineers,  and  has  relapsed  into  its  original  condition.  Not 
a twig  of  its  wicker  houses  remains,  its  goats  have  long  run 
wild  again,  its  screaming  parrots  would  darken  the  sun  with 
a cloud  of  many  flaming  colors  if  a gun  were  fired  there,  no 
face  is  ever  reflected  in  the  waters  of  the  little  creek  which 
Friday  swam  across  when  pursued  by  his  two  brother  canni- 
bals with  sharpened  stomachs.  After  comparing  notes  with 
other  travellers  who  have  similarly  revisited  the  Island  and 
conscientiously  inspected  it,  I have  satisfied  myself  that  it^ 
contains  no  vestige  of  Mr.  Atkins’s  domesticity  or  theology, 
though  his  track  on  the  memorable  evening  of  his  landing  to 
set  his  captain  ashore,  when  he  was  decoyed  about  and  round 
about  until  it  was  dark,  and  his  boat  was  stove,  and  his 
strength  and  spirits  failed  him,  is  yet  plainly  to  be  traced. 
So  is  the  hill-top  on  which  Eobinson  was  struck  dumb  with 
joy  when  the  reinstated  captain  pointed  to  the  ship,  riding 
within  half  a mile  of  the  shore,  that  was  to  bear  him  away, 
in  the  nine  and  twentieth  year  of  his  seclusion  in  that  lonely 
place.  So  is  the  sandy  beach  on  which  the  memorable  foot- 
step was  impressed,  and  where  the  savages  hauled  up  their 
canoes  when  they  came  ashore  for  those  dreadful  public 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


159 


dinners,  which  led  to  a dancing  worse  than  speech-making. 
So  is  the  cave  where  the  flaring  eyes  of  the  old  goat  made 
such  a goblin  appearance  in  the  dark.  So  is  the  site  of  the 
hut  where  Eobinson  lived  with  the  dog  and  the  parrot  and 
the  cat,  and  where  he  endured  those  first  agonies  of  solitude, 
which  — strange  to  say  — never  involved  any  ghostly  fancies ; 
a circumstance  so  very  remarkable,  that  perhaps  he  left  out 
something  in  writing  his  record  ? Eound  hundreds  of  such 
objects,  hidden  in  the  dense  tropical  foliage,  the  tropical  sea 
breaks  evermore ; and  over  them  the  tropical  sky,  saving  in 
the  short  rainy  season,  shines  bright  and  cloudless. 

Neither,  was  I ever  belated  among  wolves,  on  the  borders 
of  France  and  Spain ; nor,  did  I ever,  when  night  was  closing 
in  and  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  draw  up  my  little 
company  among  some  felled  trees  which  served  as  a breast- 
work, and  there  fire  a train  of  gunpowder  so  dexterously  that 
suddenly  we  had  three  or  four  score  blazing  wolves  illuminat- 
ing the  darkness  around  us.  Nevertheless,  I occasionally  go 
back  to  that  dismal  region  and  perform  the  feat  again ; when 
indeed  to  smell  the  singeing  and  the  frying  of  the  wolves 
afire,  and  to  see  them  setting  one  another  alight  as  they  rush 
and  tumble,  and  to  behold  them  rolling  in  the  snow  vainly 
attempting  to  put  themselves  out,  and  to  hear  their  bowlings 
taken  up  by  all  the  echoes  as  w^ell  as  by  all  the  unseen  wolves 
within  the  woods,  makes  me  tremble. 

I was  never  in  the  robbers’  cave,  where  Gil  Bias  lived,  but 
I often  go  back  there  and  find  the  trap-door  just  as  heavy  to 
raise  as  it  used  to  be,  while  that  wicked  old  disabled  Black 
lies  everlastingly  cursing  in  bed.  I was  never  in  Don 
Quixote’s  study,  where  he  read  his  books  of  chivalry  until 
he  rose  and  hacked  at  imaginary  giants,  and  then  refreshed 
himself  with  great  draughts  of  water,  yet  you  couldn’t  move 
a book  in  it  without  my  knowledge,  or  with  my  consent.  I 
was  never  (thank  Heaven)  in  company  with  the  little  old 
woman  who  hobbled  out  of  the  chest  and  told  the  merchant 
Abudah  to  go  in  search  of  the  Talisman  of  Oromanes,  yet  I 
make  it  my  business  to  know  that  she  is  well  preserved  and 
as  intolerable  as  ever.  I was  never  at  the  school  where  the 
boy  Horatio  Nelson  got  out  of  bed  to  steal  the  pears : not 


160 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


because  be  wanted  any,  but  because  every  other  boy  was 
afraid : yet  I have  several  times  been  back  to  this  Academy, 
to  see  him  let  down  out  of  window  with  a sheet.  So  with 
Damascus,  and  Bagdad,  and  Brobdingnag  (which  has  the 
curious  fate  of  being  usually  misspelt  when  written),  and 
Lilliput,  and  Laputa,  and  the  Nile,  and  Abyssinia,  and  the 
Ganges,  and  the  North  Pole,  and  many  hundreds  of  places  — 
I was  never  at  them,  yet  it  is  an  affair  of  my  life  to  keep  them 
intact,  and  I am  always  going  back  to  them. 

But,  when  I was  in  Dullborough  one  day,  revisiting  the 
associations  of  my  childhood  as  recorded  in  previous  pages  of 
these  notes,  my  experience  in  this  wise  was  made  quite  in- 
considerable and' of  no  account,  by  the  quantity  of  places  and 
people  — utterly  impossible  places  and  people,  but  none  the 
less  alarmingly  real  — that  I found  I had  been  introduced  to 
by  my  nurse  before  I was  six  years  old,  and  used  to  be  forced 
to  go  back  to  at  night  without  at  all  wanting  to  go.  If  we 
all  knew  our  own  minds  (in  a more  enlarged  sense  than  the 
popular  acceptation  of  that  phrase),  I suspect  we  should  find 
our  nurses  responsible  for  most  of  the  dark  corners  we  are 
forced  to  go  back  to,  against  our  wills. 

The  first  diabolical  character  who  intruded  himself  on  my 
peaceful  youth  (as  I called  to  mind  that.d’ay  at  Dullborough), 
was  a certain  Captain  Murderer.  This  wretch  must  have 
been  an  offshoot  of  the  Blue  Beard  family,  but  I had  no 
suspicion  of  the  consanguinity  in  those  times.  His  warning 
name  would  seem  to  have  awakened  no  general  prejudice 
against  him,  for  he  was  admitted  into  the  best  society  and 
possessed  immense  wealth.  Captain  Murderer’s  mission  was 
matrimony,  and  the  gratification  of  a cannibal  appetite  with 
tender  brides.  On  his  marriage  morning,  he  always  caused 
both  sides  of  the  way  to  church  to  be  planted  with  curious 
flowers ; and  when  his  bride  said,  Dear  Captain  Murderer,  I 
never  saw  flowers  like  these  before  : what  are  they  called  ? ” 
he  answered,  They  are  called  Garnish  for  house-lamb,”  and 
laughed  at  his  ferocious  practical  joke  in  a horrid  manner, 
disquieting  the  minds  of  the  noble  bridal  company,  with  a 
very  sharp  show  of  teeth,  then  displayed  for  the  first  time. 
He  made  love  in  a coach  and  six,  and  married  in  a coach  and 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER. 


161 


twelve,  and  all  his  horses  were  milk-white  horses  with  one 
red  spot  on  the  back  which  he  caused  to  be  hidden  by  the 
harness  For,  the  spot  looiild  come  there,  though  every  horse 
was  milk-white  when  Captain  Murderer  bought  him.  And 
the  spot  was  young  bride’s  blood.  (To  this  terrific  point  I 
am  indebted  for  my  first  personal  experience  of  a shudder 
and  cold  beads  on  the  forehead.)  When  Captain  Murderer 
had  ]nade  an  end  of  feasting  and  revelry,  and  had  dismissed 
the  noble  guests,  and  was  alone  with  his  wife  on  the  day 
month  after  their  marriage  it  was  his  whimsical  custom  to 
produce  a golden  rolling-pin  and  a silver  pie-board.  Now, 
there  was  this  special  feature  in  the  Captain’s  courtships, 
that  he  always  asked  if  the  young  lady  could  make  pie-crust ; 
and  if  she  couldn’t  by  nature  or  education,  she  was  taught. 
Well.  When  the  bride  saw  Captain  Murderer  produce  the 
golden  rolling-pin  and  silver  pie-board,  she  remembered  this, 
and  turned  up  her  laced-silk  sleeves  to  make  a pie.  The 
Captain  brought  out  a silver  pie-dish  of  immense  capacity, 
and  the  Captain  brought  out  fiour  and  butter  and  eggs  and 
all  things  needful,  except  the  inside  of  the  pie ; of  materials 
for  the  staple  of  the  pie  itself,  the  Captain  brought  out  none. 
Then  said  the  lovely  bride,  ^^Dear  Captain  Murderer,  what 
pie  is  this  to  be  ? ” He  replied,  A meat  pie.”  Then  said 
the  lovely  bride,  ^^Dear  Captain  Murderer,  I see  no  meat.” 
The  Captain  humorously  retorted,  Look  in  the  glass.”  She 
looked  in  the  glass,  but  still  she  saw  no  meat,  and  then  the 
Captain  roared  with  laughter,  and  suddenly  frowning  and 
drawing  his  sword,  bade  her  roll  out  the  crust.  So  she  rolled 
out  the  crust,  dropping  large  tears  upon  it  all  the  time 
because  he  was  so  cross,  and  when  she  had  lined  the  dish 
with  crust  and  had  cut  the  crust  all  ready  to  fit  the  top,  the 
Captain  called  out,  I see  the  meat  in  the  glass  ! ” And  the 
bride  looked  up  at  the  glass,  just  in  time  to  see  the  Captain 
cutting  her  head  off ; and  he  chopped  her  in  pieces,  and  pep- 
pered her,  and  salted  her,  and  put  her  in  the  pie,  and  sent  it 
to  the  baker’s,  and  ate  it  all,  and  picked  the  bones. 

Captain  Murderer  went  on  in  this  way,  prospering  exceed- 
ingly until  he  came  to  choose  a bride  from  two  twin  sisters, 
and  at  first  didn’t  know  which  to  choose.  For,  though  one 


162 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


was  fair  and  the  other  dark,  they  were  both  equally  beautiful. 
But  the  fair  twin  loved  him,  and  the  dark  twin  hated  him,  so 
he  chose  the  fair  one.  The  dark  twin  would  have  prevented 
the  marriage  if  she  could,  but  she  couldn’t ; however,  on  the 
night  before  it,  much  suspecting  Captain  Murderer,  she  stole 
out  and  climbed  his  garden  wall,  and  looked  in  at  his  window 
through  a chink  in  the  shutter,  and  saw  him  having  his  teeth 
filed  sharp.  Next  day  she  listened  all  day,  and  heard  him 
make  his  joke  about  the  house-lamb.  And  that  day  month, 
he  had  the  paste  rolled  out,  and  cut  the  fair  twin’s  head  off, 
and  chopped  her  in  pieces,  and  peppered  her,  and  salted  her, 
and  put  her  in  the  pie,  and  sent  it  to  the  baker’s,  and  ate  it 
all,  and  picked  the  bones. 

Now,  the  dark  twin  had  had  her  suspicions  much  increased 
by  the  filing  of  the  Captain’s  teeth,  and  again  by  the  house- 
lamb  joke.  Putting  all  things  together  when  he  gave  out  that 
her  sister  was  dead,  she  divined  the  truth,  and  determined  to 
be  revenged.  So,  she  went  up  to  Captain  Murderer’s  house, 
and  knocked  at  the  knocker  and  pulled  at  the  bell,  and  when 
the  Captain  came  to  the  door,  said  : Dear  Captain  Murderer, 
marry  me  next,  for  1 always  loved  you  and  was  jealous  of  my 
sister.”  The  Captain  took  it  as  a compliment,  and  made  a 
polite  answer,  and  the  marriage  was  quickly  arranged.  On 
the  night  before  it,  the  bride  again  climbed  to  his  window, 
and  again  saw  him  having  his  teeth  filed  sharp.  At  this  sight 
she  laughed  such  a terrible  laugh  at  the  chink  in  the  shutter, 
that  the  Captain’s  blood  curdled,  and  he  said : I hope  noth- 
ing has  disagreed  with  me  ! ” At  that,  she  laughed  again,  a 
still  more  terrible  laugh,  and  the  shutter  was  opened  and 
search  made,  but  she  was  nimbly  gone,  and  there  was  no  one. 
Next  day  they  went  to  church  in  a coach  and  twelve,  and 
were  married.  And  that  day  month,  she  rolled  the  pie-crust 
out,  and  Captain  Murderer  cut  her  head  off,  and  chopped  her 
in  pieces,  and  peppered  her,  and  salted  her,  and  put  her  in  the 
pie,  and  sent  it  to  the  baker’s,  and  ate  it  all,  and  picked  the 
bones. 

But  before  she  began  to  roll  out  the  paste  she  had  taken  a 
deadly  poison  of  a most  awful  character,  distilled  from  toads’ 
eyes  and  spiders’  knees ; and  Captain  Murderer  had  hardly 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLEB. 


163 


picked  her  last  bone,  when  he  began  to  swell,  and  to  turn  blue, 
and  to  be  all  over  spots,  and  to  scream.  And  he  went  on 
swelling  and  turning  bluer,  and  being  more  all  over  spots  and 
screaming,  until  he  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  from 
wall  to  wall ; and  then,  at  one  o’clock  in  the  morning,  he  blew 
up  with  a loud  explosion.  At  the  sound  of  it,  all  the  milk- 
white  horses  in  the  stables  broke  their  halters  and  went  mad, 
and  then  they  galloped  over  everybody  in  Captain  Murderer’s 
house  (beginning  with  the  family  blacksmith  who  had  flled 
his  teeth)  until  the  whole  were  dead,  and  then  they  galloped 
away. 

Hundreds  of  times  did  I hear  this  legend  of  Captain  Mur- 
derer, in  my  early  youth,  and  added  hundreds  of  times  was 
there  a mental  compulsion  upon  me  in  bed,  to  peep  in  at  his 
window  as  the  dark  twin  peeped,  and  to  revisit  his  horrible 
house,  and  look  at  him  in  his  blue  and  spotty  and  screaming 
stage,  as  he  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling  and  from  wall  to  wall. 
The  young  woman  who  brought  me  acquainted  with  Captain 
Murderer  had  a fiendish  enjoyment  of  my  terrors,  and  used  to 
begin,  I remember  — as  a sort  of  introductory  overture  — by 
clawing  the  air  with  both  hands,  and  uttering  a long  low  hol- 
low groan.  So  acutely  did  I suffer  from  this  ceremony  in 
combination  with  this  infernal  Captain,  that  I sometimes  used 
to  plead  I thought  I was  hardly  strong  enough  and  old  enough 
to  hear  the  story  again  just  yet.  But,  she  never  spared  me 
one  word  of  it,  and  indeed  commended  the  awful  chalice  to 
my  lips  as  the  only  preservative  known  to  science  against 
The  Black  Cat  ” — a weird  and  glaring-eyed  supernatural 
Tom^  who  was  reputed  to  prowl  about  the  world  by  night, 
sucking  the  breath  of  infancy,  and  who  was  endowed  with  a 
special  thirst  (as  I was  given  to  understand)  for  mine. 

This,  female  bard  — may  she  have  been  repaid  my  debt  of 
obligation  to  her  in  the  matter  of  nightmares  and  perspira- 
tions ! — reappears  in  my  memory  as  the  daughter  of  a ship- 
wright. Her  name  was  Mercy,  though  she  had  none  on  me. 
There  was  something  of  a shipbuilding  flavor  in  the  following 
story.  As  it  always  recurs  to  me  in  a vague  association  with 
calomel  pills,  I believe  it  to  have  been  reserved  for  dull  nights 
when  I was  low  with  medicine. 


164 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


There  was  once  a shipwright,  and  he  wrought  in  a Govern- 
ment Yard,  and  his  name  was  Chips.  And  his  father’s  name 
before  him  was  Chips,  and  his  father’s  name  before  him  was 
Chips,  and  they  were  all  Chipses.  And  Chips  the  father  had 
sold  himself  to  the  Devil  for  an  iron  pot  and  a bushel  of  ten- 
penny  nails  and  half  a ton  of  copper  and  a rat  that  could 
speak ; and  Chips  the  grandfather  had  sold  himself  to  the 
Devil  for  an  iron  pot  and  a bushel  of  tenpenny  nails  and  half 
a ton  of  copper  and  a rat  that  could  speak ; and  Chips  the 
great-grandfather  had  disposed  of  himself  in  the  same  direc- 
tion on  the  same  terms ; and  the  bargain  had  run  in  the  family 
for  a long  long  time.  So,  one  day,  when  young  Chips  was  at 
work  in  the  Dock  Slip  all  alone,  down  in  the  dark  hold  of  an 
old  Seventy-four  that  was  hauled  up  for  repairs,  the  Devil 
presented  himself,  and  remarked,  — 

‘A  Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a Yard  has  ships, 

And  I’ll  have  Chips. 

(I  don’t  know  why,  but  this  fact  of  the  Devil’s  expressing 
himself  in  rhyme  was  peculiarly  trying  to  me.)  Chips  looked 
up  when  he  heard  the  words,  and  there  he  saw  the  Devil  with 
saucer  eyes  that  squinted  on  a terrible  great  scale,  and  that 
struck  out  sparks  of  blue  fire  continually.  And  whenever  he 
winked  his  eyes,  showers  of  blue  sparks  came  out,  and  his  eye- 
lashes made  a clattering  like  flints  and  steels  striking  lights. 
And  hanging  over  one  of  his  arms  by  the  handle  was  an  iron 
pot,  and  under  that  arm  was  a bushel  of  tenpenny  nails,  and 
under  his  other  arm  was  half  a ton  of  copper,  and  sitting  on 
one  of  his  shoulders  was  a rat  that  could  speak.  So,  the 
Devil  said  again,  — 

“A  Lemon  has  pips. 

And  a Yard  has  ships. 

And  I’ll  have  Chips.” 

(The  invariable  effect  of  this  alarming  tautology  on  the  part 
of  the  Evil  Spirit  was  to  deprive  me  of  my  senses  for  some 
moments.)  So,  Chips  answered  never  a word,  but  went  on 
with  his  work.  What  are  you  doing.  Chips  ?”  said  the  rat 
that  could  speak.  am  putting  in  new  planks  where  you 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


165 


and  your  gang  have  eaten  old  away/’  said  Chips.  ^^But  we’ll 
eat  them  too/’  said  the  rat  that  could  speak  ; and  we’ll  let  in 
the  water  and  drown  the  crew,  and  we’ll  eat  them  too.”  Chips, 
being  only  a shipwright,  and  not  a Man-of-war’s  man,  said. 
You  are  welcome  to  it.”  But  he  couldn’t  keep  his  eyes  off 
the  half  a ton  of  copper  or  the  bushel  of  tenpenny  nails ; for 
nails  and  copper  are  a shipwright’s  sweethearts,  and  ship- 
wrights will  run  away  with  them  whenever  they  can.  So,  the 
Devil  said,  I see  what  you  are  looking  at.  Chips.  You  had 
better  strike  the  bargain.  You  know  the  terms.  Your  father 
before  you  was  well  acquainted  with  them,  and  so  were  your 
grandfather  and  great-grandfather  before  him.”  Says  Chips, 
I like  the  copper,  and  I like  the  nails,  and  I don’t  mind  the 
pot,  but  I don’t  like  the  rat.”  Says  the  Devil,  fiercely,  You 
can’t  have  the  metal  without  him  — and  he^s  a curiosity.  I’m 
going.”  Chips,  afraid  of  losing  the  half  a ton  of  copper  and 
the  bushel  of  nails,  then  said,  Give  us  hold ! ” So,  he  got 
the  copper  and  the  nails  and  the  pot  and  the  rat  that  could 
speak,  and  the  Devil  vanished.  Chips  sold  the  copper,  and  he 
sold  the  nails,  and  he  would  have  sold  the  pot ; but  whenever 
he  offered  it  for  sale,  the  rat  was  in  it,  and  the  dealers  dropped 
it,  and  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  bargain.  So,  Chips 
resolved  to  kill  the  rat,  and,  being  at  work  in  the  Yard  one 
day  with  a great  kettle  of  hot  pitch  on  one  side  of  him  and 
the  iron  pot  with  the  rat  in  it  on  the  other,  he  turned  the 
scalding  pitch  into  the  pot,  and  filled  it  full.  Then  he  kept 
his  eye  upon  it  till  it  cooled  and  hardened,  and  then  he  let  it 
stand  for  twenty  days,  and  then  he  heated  the  pitch  again  and 
turned  it  back  into  the  kettle,  and  then  he  sank  the  pot  in 
water  for  twenty  days  more,  and  then  he  got  the  smelters  to 
put  it  in  the  furnace  for  twenty  days  more,  and  then  they  gave 
it  him  out,  red  hot,  and  looking  like  red-hot  glass  instead  of 
iron  — yet  there  was  the  rat  in  it,  just  the  same  as  ever  ! And 
the  moment  it  caught  his  eye,  it  said  with  a jeer, — 

‘A  Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a Yard  has  ships, 

And  J’ll  have  Chips.^’ 

(For  this  Kefrain  I had  waited  since  its  last  appearance,  with 
inexpressible  horror,  which  now  culminated.)  Chips  now  felt 


166 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER. 


certain  in  his  own  mind  that  the  rat  would  stick  to  him ; the 
rat,  answering  his  thoughts,  said,  I will  — like  pitch  ! 

Now,  as  the  rat  leaped  out  of  the  pot  when  it  had  spoken, 
and  made  off,  Chips  began  to  hope  that  it  wouldn’t  keep  its 
word.  But,  a terrible  thing  happened  next  day.  For,  when 
dinner-time  came,  and  the  Dock  bell  rang  to  strike  work,  he 
put  his  rule  into  the  long  pocket  at  the  side  of  his  trousers, 
and  there  he  found  a rat  — not  that  rat,  but  another  rat.  And 
in  his  hat,  he  found  another ; and  in  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
another ; and  in  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  when  he  pulled  it  on 
to  go  to  dinner,  two  more.  And  from  that  time  he  found  him- 
self so  frightfully  intimate  with  all  the  rats  in  the  Yard,  that 
they  climbed  up  his  legs  when  he  was  at  work,  and  sat  on  his 
tools  while  he  used  them.  And  they  could  all  speak  to  one 
another,  and  he  understood  what  they  said.  And  they  got 
into  his  lodging,  and  into  his  bed,  and  into  his  teapot,  and  into 
his  beer,  and  into  his  boots.  And  he  was  going  to  be  married 
to  a corn-chandler’s  daughter ; and  when  he  gave  her  a work- 
box  he  had  himself  made  for  her,  a rat  jumped  out  of  it ; and 
when  he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  a rat  clung  about  her ; 
so  the  marriage  was  broken  off,  though  the  banns  were  already 
twice  put  up  — which  the  parish  clerk  well  remembers,  for  as  he 
handed  the  book  to  the  clergyman  for  the  second  time  of  ask- 
ing, a large  fat  rat  ran  over  the  leaf.  (By  this  time  a special 
cascade  of  rats  was  rolling  down  my  back,  and  the  whole  of 
my  small  listening  person  was  overrun  with  them.  At  inter- 
vals ever  since,  I have  been  morbidly  afraid  of  my  own  pocket, 
lest  my  exploring  hand  should  find  a specimen  or  two  of  those 
vermin  in  it.) 

You  may  believe  that  all  this  was  very  terrible  to  Chips ; 
but  even  all  this  was  not  the  worst.  He  knew  besides,  what 
the  rats  were  doing,  wherever  they  were.  So,  sometimes  he 
would  cry  aloud,  when  he  was  at  his  club  at  night,  Oh ! 
Keep  the  rats  out  of  the  convicts’  burying-ground ! Don’t 
let  them  do  that ! ” Or,  There’s  one  of  them  at  the  cheese 
down-stairs ! ” Or,  There’s  two  of  them  smelling  at  the 
baby  in  the  garret ! ” Or,  other  things  of  that  sort.  At  last, 
he  was  voted  mad,  and  lost  his  work  in  the  Yard,  and  could 
get  no  other  work.  But,  King  George  wanted  men,  so  before 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER, 


167 


very  long  he  got  pressed  for  a sailor.  And  so  he  was  taken 
off  in  a boat  one  evening  to  his  ship,  lying  at  Spithead,  ready 
to  sail.  And  so  the  first  thing  he  made  out  in  her  as  he  got 
near  her,  was  the  figure-head  of  the  old  Seventy-four,  where 
he  had  seen  the  Devil.  She  was  called  the  Argonaut,  and 
they  rowed  right  under  the  bowsprit  where  the  figure-head 
of  the  Argonaut,  with  a sheepskin  in  his  hand  and  a blue 
gown  on,  was  looking  out  to  sea ; and  sitting  staring  on  his 
forehead  was  the  rat  who  could  speak,  and  his  exact  words 
were  these  : Chips  ahoy ! Old  boy  ! WeVe  pretty  well 
eat  them  too,  and  wefil  drown  the  crew,  and  will  eat  them 
too  ! (Here  I always  became  exceedingly  faint,  and  would 
have  asked  for  water,  but  that  I was  speechless.) 

The  ship  was  bound  for  the  Indies ; and  if  you  don’t  know 
where  that  is,  you  ought  to  it,  and  angels  will  never  love  you. 
(Here  I felt  myself  an  outcast  from  a future  state.)  The  ship 
set  sail  that  very  night,  and  she  sailed,  and  sailed,  and 
sailed.  Chips’s  feelings  were  dreadful.  Nothing  ever  equalled 
his  terrors.  No  wonder.  At  last,  one  day  he  asked  leave  to 
speak  to  the  Admiral.  The  Admiral  giv’  leave.  Chips  went 
down  on  his  knees  in  the  Great  State  Cabin.  Your  Honor, 
unless  your  Honor,  without  a moment’s  loss  of  time  makes 
sail  for  the  nearest  shore,  this  is  a doomed  ship,  and  her 
name  is  the  Coffin  ! ” — Young  man,  your  words  are  a mad- 
man’s words.”  — ^^Your  Honor,  no;  they  are  nibbling  us 
away.”  — They  ? ” — Your  Honor,  them  dreadful  rats. 
Dust  and  hollowness  where  solid  oak  ought  to  be ! Eats 
nibbling  a grave  for  every  man  on  board  ! Oh  ! Does  your 
Honor  love  your  Lady  and  your  pretty  children  ? ” — Yes, 
my  man,  to  be  sure.”  — Then,  for  God’s  sake,  make  for  the 
nearest  shore,  for  at  this  present  moment  the  rats  are  all 
stopping  in  their  work,  and  are  all  looking  straight  towards 
you  with  bare  teeth,  and  are  all  saying  to  one  another  that 
you  shall  never,  never,  never,  never,  see  your  Lady  and  your 
children  more.”  — My  poor  fellow,  you  are  a case  for  the 
doctor.  Sentry,  take  care  of  this  man  ! ” 

So,  he  was  bled  and  he  was  blistered,  and  he  was  this  and 
that,  for  six  whole  days  and  nights.  So,  then  he  again  asked 
leave  to  speak  to  the  Admiral.  The  Admiral  giv’  leave.  He 


168 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TEAVELLER. 


went  down  on  his  knees  in  the  Great  State  Cabin.  ^^Now, 
Admiral,  you  must  die ! You  took  no  warning ; you  must 
die ! The  rats  are  never  wrong  in  their  calculations,  and 
they  make  out  that  they’ll  be  through,  at  twelve  to-night. 
So,  you  must  die  ! — With  me  and  all  the  rest ! ” And  so  at 
twelve  o’clock  there  was  a great  leak  reported  in  the  ship, 
and  a torrent  of  water  rushed  in  and  nothing  could  stop  it, 
and  they  all  went  down,  every  living  soul.  And  what  the 
rats  — being  water-rats  — left  of  Chips,  at  last  floated  to 
shore,  and  sitting  on  him  was  an  immense  overgrown  rat, 
laughing,  that  dived  when  the  corpse  touched  the  beach  and 
never  came  up.  And  there  was  a deal  of  seaweed  on  the 
remains.  And  if  you  get  thirteen  bits  of  seaweed,  and  dry 
them  and  burn  them  in  the  fire,  they  will  go  off  like  in  these 
thirteen  words  as  plain  as  plain  can  be,  — 

‘‘  A Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a Yard  has  ships, 

And  I’ve  got  Chips!” 

The  same  female  bard  — descended,  possibly,  from  those 
terrible  old  Scalds  who  seem  to  have  existed  for  the  express 
purpose  of  addling  the  brains  of  mankind  when  they  begin 
to  investigate  languages  — made  a standing  pretence  which 
greatly  assisted  in  forcing  me  back  to  a number  of  hideous 
places  that  I would  by  all  means  have  avoided.  This  pretence 
was,  that  all  her  ghost  stories  had  occurred  to  her  own  rela- 
tions. Politeness  towards  a meritorious  family,  therefore, 
forbade  my  doubting  them,  and  they  acquired  an  air  of 
authentication  that  impaired  my  digestive  powers  for  life. 
There  was  a narrative  concerning  an  unearthly  animal  fore- 
boding death,  which  appeared  in  the  open  street  to  a parlor- 
maid who  went  to  fetch  the  beer  ” for  supper : first  (as  I 
now  recall  it)  assuming  the  likeness  of  a black  dog,  and 
gradually  rising  on  its  hind  legs  and  swelling  into  the  sem- 
blance of  some  quadruped  greatly  surpassing  a hippopotamus  : 
which  apparition  — not  because  I deemed  it  in  the  least  im- 
probable, but  because  I felt  it  to  be  really  too  large  to  bear  — 
I feebly  endeavored  to  explain  away.  But,  on  Mercy’s 
retorting  with  wounded  dignity  that  the  parlor-maid  was 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


169 


her  own  sister-in-law,  I perceived  there  was  no  hope,  and 
resigned  myself  to  this  zoological  phenomenon  as  one  of  my 
many  pursuers.  There  was  another  narrative  describing  the 
apparition  of  a young  woman  who  came  out  of  a glass  case 
and  haunted  another  young  woman  until  the  other  young 
woman  questioned  it  and  elicited  that  its  bones  (Lord ! To 
think  of  its  being  so  particular  about  its  bones !)  were 
buried  under  the  glass  case,  whereas  she  required  them  to  be 
interred,  with  every  Undertaking  solemnity  up  to  twenty-four 
pound  ten,  in  another  particular  place.  This  narrative  I 
considered  I had  a personal  interest  in  disproving,  because 
we  had  glass  cases  at  home,  and  how,  otherwise,  was  I to  be 
guaranteed  from  the  intrusion  of  young  women  requiring  me 
to  bury  them  up  to  twenty -four  pound  ten,  when  I had  only 
twopence  a week  ? But  my  remorseless  nurse  cut  the  ground 
from  under  my  tender  feet,  by  informing  me  that  She  was  the 
other  young  woman;  and  I couldn’t  say  don’t  believe 
you ; ” it  was  not  possible. 

Such  are  a few  of  the  uncommercial  journeys  that  I was 
forced  to  make,  against  my  will,  when  I was  very  young  and 
unreasoning.  And  really,  as  to  the  latter  part  of  them,  it  is 
not  so  very  long  ago  — now  I come  to  think  of  it  — that  I 
was  asked  to  undertake  them  once  again,  with  a steady 
countenance. 


170 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


XVI. 

ARCADIAN  LONDON. 

Being  in  a humor  for  complete  solitude  and  uninterrupted 
meditation  this  autumn,  I have  taken  a lodging  for  six  weeks 
in  the  most  unfrequented  part  of  England  — in  a word,  in 
London. 

The  retreat  into  which  I have  withdrawn  myself  is  Bond 
Street.  From  this  lonely  spot  I make  pilgrimages  into  the 
surrounding  wilderness,  and  traverse  extensive  tracts  of  the 
Great  Desert.  The  first  solemn  feeling  of  isolation  overcome, 
the  first  oppressive  consciousness  of  profound  retirement  con- 
quered, I enjoy  that  sense  of  freedom,  and  feel  reviving 
within  me  that  latent  wildness  of  the  original  savage,  which 
has  been  (upon  the  whole  somewhat  frequently)  noticed  by 
Travellers. 

My  lodgings  are  at  a hatter’s  — my  own  hatter’s.  After 
exhibiting  no  articles  in  his  window  for  some  weeks,  but  sea- 
side wide-awakes,  shooting-caps,  and  a choice  of  rough  water- 
proof head-gear  for  the  moors  and  mountains,  he  has  put 
upon  the  heads  of  his  family  as  much  of  this  stock  as  they 
could  carry,  and  has  taken  them  off  to  the  Isle  of  Thanet. 
His  young  man  alone  remains  — and  remains  alone  — in  the 
shop.  The  young  man  has  let  out  the  fire  at  which  the  irons 
are  heated,  and,  saving  his  strong  sense  of  duty,  I see  no 
reason  why  he  should  take  the  shutters  down. 

Happily  for  himself  and  for  his  country,  the  young  man  is 
a Volunteer;  most  happily  for  himself,  or  I think  he  would 
become  the  prey  of  a settled  melancholy.  For,  to  live  sur- 
rounded by  human  hats,  and  alienated  from  human  heads  to 
fit  them  on,  is  surely  a great  endurance.  But,  the  young 
man  sustained  by  practising  his  exercise,  and  by  constantly 
furbishing  up  his  regulation  plume  (it  is  unnecessary  to 
observe  that,  as  a hatter,  he  is  in  a cock’s-feather  corps),  is 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


171 


resigned,  and  uncomplaining.  On  a Saturday,  when  he  closes 
early  and  gets  his  Knickerbockers  on,  he  is  even  cheerful. 
I am  gratefully  particular  in  this  reference  to  him,  because 
he  is  my  companion  through  many  peaceful  hours.  My  hatter 
has  a desk  up  certain  steps  behind  his  counter,  enclosed  like 
the  clerk’s  desk  at  Church.  I shut  myself  into  this  place 
of  seclusion,  after  breakfast,  and  meditate.  At  such  times,  I 
observe  the  young  man  loading  an  imaginary  rifle  with  the 
greatest  precision,  and  maintaining  a most  galling  and  destruc- 
tive fire  upon  the  national  enemy.  I thank  him  publicly  for 
his  companionship  and  his  patriotism. 

The  simple  character  of  my  life,  and  the  calm  nature  of  the 
scenes  by  which  I am  surrounded,  occasion  me  to  rise  early. 
I go  forth  in  my  slippers,  and  promenade  the  pavement.  It 
is  pastoral  to  feel  the  freshness  of  the  air  in  the  uninhabited 
town,  and  to  appreciate  the  shepherdess  character  of  the  few 
milkwomen  who  purvey  so  little  milk  that  it  would  be  worth 
nobody’s  while  to  adulterate  it,  if  anybody  were  left  to  under- 
take the  task.  On  the  crowded  seashore,  the  great  demand 
for  milk,  combined  with  the  strong  local  temptation  of  chalk, 
would  betray  itself  in  the  lowered  quality  of  the  article.  In 
Arcadian  London  I derive  it  from  the  cow. 

The  Arcadian  simplicity  of  the  metropolis  altogether,  and 
the  primitive  ways  into  which  it  has  fallen  in  this  autumnal 
Golden  Age,  make  it  entirely  new  to  me.  Within  a few  hun- 
dred yards  of  my  retreat,  is  the  house  of  a friend  who  main- 
tains a most  sumptuous  butler.  I never,  until  yesterday,  saw 
that  butler  out  of  superfine  black  broadcloth.  Until  yesterday, 
I never  saw  him  off  duty,  never  saw  him  (he  is  the  best  of 
butlers)  with  the  appearance  of  having  any  mind  for  anything 
but  the  glory  of  his  master  and  his  master’s  friends.  Yester- 
day morning,  walking  in  my  slippers  near  the  house  of  which 
he  is  the  prop  and  ornament  — a house  now  a waste  of  shutters 
— I encountered  that  butler,  also  in  his  slippers,  and  in  a 
shooting  suit  of  one  color,  and  in  a low-crowned  straw  hat, 
smoking  an  early  cigar.  He  felt  that  we  had  formerly  met 
in  another  state  of  existence,  and  that  we  were  translated  into 
a new  sphere.  Wisely  and  well,  he  passed  me  without  recog- 
nition. Under  his  arm  he  carried  the  morning  paper,  and 


172 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


shortly  afterwards  I saw  him  sitting  on  a rail  in  the  pleasant 
open  landscape  of  Kegent  Street,  perusing  it  at  his  ease 
under  the  ripening  sun. 

My  landlord  having  taken  his  whole  establishment  to  be 
salted  down,  I am  waited  on  by  an  elderly  woman  laboring 
under  a chronic  sniff,  who  at  the  shadowy  hour  of  half-past 
nine  o’clock  of  every  evening,  gives  admittance  at  the  street 
door  to  a meagre  and  mouldy  old  man  whom  I have  never 
yet  seen  detached  from  a flat  pint  of  beer  in  a pewter  pot. 
The  meagre  and  mouldy  old  man  is  her  husband,  and  the  pair 
have  a dejected  consciousness  that  they  are  not  justified  in 
appearing  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.  They  come  out  of 
some  hole  when  London  empties  itself,  and  go  in  again  when 
it  fills.  I saw  them  arrive  on  the  evening  when  I myself 
took  possession,  and  they  arrived  with  the  flat  pint  of  beer, 
and  their  bed  in  a bundle.  The  old  man  is  a weak  old  man, 
and  appeared  to  me  to  get  the  bed  down  the  kitchen  stairs  by 
tumbling  down  with  and  upon  it.  They  make  their  bed  in 
the  lowest  and  remotest  corner  of  the  basement,  and  they 
smell  of  bed,  and  have  no  possession  but  bed : unless  it  be 
(which  I rather  infer  from  an  undercurrent  of  flavor  in  them) 
cheese.  I know  their  name,  through  the  chance  of  having 
called  the  wife’s  attention,  at  half-past  nine  on  the  second 
evening  of  our  acquaintance,  to  the  circumstance  of  there 
being  some  one  at  the  house  door ; when  she  apologetically 
explained,  ^^It’s  only  Mr.  Klem.”  What  becomes  of  Mr. 
Klein  all  day,  or  when  he  goes  out,  or  why,  is  a mystery  I 
cannot  penetrate  ; but  at  half-past  nine  he  never  fails  to  turn 
up  on  the  doorstep  with  the  flat  pint  of  beer.  And  the  pint 
of  beer,  flat  as  it  is,  is  so  much  more  important  than  himself, 
that  it  always  seems  to  my  fancy  as  if  it  had  found  him  driv- 
elling in  the  street  and  had  humanely  brought  him  home. 
In  making  his  way  below,  Mr.  Klein  never  goes  down  the 
middle  of  the  passage,  like  another  Christian,  but  shuffles 
against  the  wall  as  if  entreating  me  to  take  notice  that  he  is 
occupying  as  little  space  as  possible  in  the  house  ; and  when- 
ever I come  upon  him  face  to  face,  he  backs  from  me  in 
fascinated  confusion.  The  most  extraordinary  circumstance 
I have  traced  in  connection  with  this  aged  couple  is,  that 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TBAVELLER. 


173 


there  is  a Miss  Klem,  their  daughter,  apparently  ten  years 
older  than  either  of  them,  who  has  also  a bed,  and  smells  of 
it,  and  carries  it  about  the  earth  at  dusk  and  hides  it  in 
deserted  houses.  I came  into  this  piece  of  knowledge  through 
Mrs.  Klem’s  beseeching  me  to  sanction  the  sheltering  of  Miss 
Klein  under  that  roof  for  a single  night,  between  her  takin’ 
care  of  the  upper  part  in  Pall  Mall  which  the  family  of  his 
back,  and  a ^ouse  in  Serjameses  Street,  which  the  family  of 
leaves  towng  ter-morrer.’^  I gave  my  gracious  consent  (hav- 
ing nothing  that  I know  of  to  do  with  it),  and  in  the  shadowy 
hours  Miss  Klem  became  perceptible  on  the  doorstep,  wrest- 
ling with  a bed  in  a bundle.  Where  she  made  it  up  for  the 
night  I cannot  positively  state,  but,  I think,  in  a sink.  I 
know  that  with  the  instinct  of  a reptile  or  an  insect,  she 
stowed  it  and  herself  away  in  deep  obscurity.  In  the  Klem 
family,  I have  noticed  another  remarkable  gift  of  nature,  and 
that  is  a power  they  possess  of  converting  everything  into 
flue.  Such  broken  victuals  as  they  take  by  stealth,  appear 
(whatever  the  nature  of  the  viands)  invariably  to  generate 
flue ; and  even  the  nightly  pint  of  beer,  instead  of  assimilat- 
ing naturally,  strikes  me  as  breaking  out  in  that  form,  equally 
on  the  shabby  gown  of  Mrs.  Klem,  and  the  threadbare  coat  of 
her  husband. 

Mrs.  Klem  has  no  idea  of  my  name  — as  to  Mr.  Klem  he 
has  no  idea  of  anything  — and  only  knows  me  as  her  good 
gentleman.  Thus,  if  doubtful  whether  I am  in  my  room  or 
no,  Mrs.  Klem  taps  at  the  door  and  says,  Is  my  good  gentle- 
man here  ? ’’  Or,  if  a messenger  desiring  to  see  me  were 
consistent  with  my  solitude,  she  would  show  him  in  with 
Here  is  my  good  gentleman.’^  I find  this  to  be  a generic 
custom.  For,  I meant  to  have  observed  before  now,  that  in 
its  Arcadian  time  all  my  part  of  London  is  indistinctly  per- 
vaded by  the  Klem  species.  They  creep  about  with  beds, 
and  go  to  bed  in  miles  of  deserted  houses.  They  hold  no 
companionship  except  that  sometimes,  after  dark,  two  of 
them  will  emerge  from  opposite  houses,  and  meet  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  as  on  neutral  ground,  or  will  peep  from 
adjoining  houses  over  an  interposing  barrier  of  area  railings, 
and  compare  a few  reserved  mistrustful  notes  respecting  their 


174 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


good  ladies  or  good  gentlemen.  This  I have  discovered  in 
the  course  of  various  solitary  rambles  I have  taken  Northward 
from  my  retirement,  along  the  awful  perspectives  of  Wimpole 
Street,  Harley  Street,  and  similar  frowning  regions.  Their 
effect  would  be  scarcely  distinguishable  from  that  of  the 
primeval  forests,  but  for  the  Klein  stragglers ; these  may  be 
dimly  observed,  when  the  heavy  shadows  fall,  flitting  to  and 
fro,  putting  up  the  door  chain,  taking  in  the  pint  of  beer, 
lowering  like  phantoms  at  the  dark  parlor  windows  or  secretly 
consorting  underground  with  the  dust  bin  and  the  water- 
cistern. 

In  the  Burlington  Arcade,  I observe,  with  peculiar  pleasure, 
a primitive  state  of  manners  to  have  superseded  the  baneful 
influences  of  ultra  civilization.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  in- 
nocence of  the  ladies’  shoe-shops,  the  artificial  flower  reposi- 
tories, and  the  head-dress  depots.  They  are  in  strange  hands 
at  this  time  of  the  year  — hands  of  unaccustomed  persons,  who 
are  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  prices  of  the  goods,  and 
contemplate  them  with  unsophisticated  delight  and  wonder. 
The  children  of  these  virtuous  people  exchange  familiarities 
in  the  Arcade,  and  temper  the  asperity  of  the  two  tall  beadles. 
Their  youthful  prattle  blends  in  an  unwonted  manner  with 
the  harmonious  shade  of  the  scene,  and  the  general  effect  is, 
as  of  the  voices  of  birds  in  a grove.  In  this  happy  restora- 
tion of  the  golden  time,  it  has  been  my  privilege  even  to  see 
the  bigger  beadle’s  wife.  She  brought  him  his  dinner  in  a 
basin,  and  he  ate  it  in  his  arm-chair,  and  afterwards  fell 
asleep  like  a satiated  child.  At  Mr.  Truefitt’s,  the  excellent 
hairdresser’s,  they  are  learning  Trench  to  beguile  the  time ; 
and  even  the  few  solitaries  left  on  guard  at  Mr.  Atkinson’s, 
the  perfumer’s  round  the  corner  (generally  the  most  inexor- 
able gentleman  in  London,  and  the  most  scornful  of  three 
and  sixpence),  condescend  a little,  as  they  drowsily  bide  or 
recall  their  turn  for  chasing  the  ebbing  Neptune  on  the  ribbed 
sea-sand.  From  Messrs.  Hunt  and  Koskell’s,  the  jewellers, 
all  things  are  absent  but  the  precious  stones,  and  the  gold 
and  silver,  and  the  soldierly  pensioner  at  the  door  with  his 
decorated  breast.  I might  stand  night  and  day  for  a month 
to  come,  in  Saville  Bow,  with  my  tongue  out,  yet  not  find  a 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


175 


doctor  to  look  at  it  for  love  or  money.  The  dentist’s  instru- 
ments are  rusting  in  their  drawers,  and  their  horrible  cool 
parlors,  where  people  pretend  to  read  the  Every-Day  Book 
and  not  to  be  afraid,  are  doing  penance  for  their  grimness  in 
white  sheets.  The  light  weight  of  shrewd  appearance,  with 
one  eye  always  shut  up,  as  if  he  were  eating  a sharp  goose- 
berry in  all  seasons,  who  usually  stands  at  the  gateway  of  the 
livery  stables  on  very  little  legs  under  a very  large  waistcoat, 
has  gone  to  Doncaster.  Of  such  undesigning  aspect  is  his 
guileless  yard  now,  with  its  gravel  and  scarlet  beans,  and  the 
yellow  Brake  housed  under  a glass  roof  in  a corner,  that  I 
almost  believe  I could  not  be  taken  in  there,  if  I tried.  In 
the  places  of  business  of  the  great  tailors,  the  cheval  glasses 
are  dim  and  dusty  for  lack  of  being  looked  into.  Kanges  of 
brown  paper  coat  and  waistcoat  bodies  look  as  funereal  as  if 
they  were  the  hatchments  of  the  customers  with  whose  names 
they  are  inscribed;  the  measuring  tapes  hang  idle  on  the 
wall ; the  order-taker,  left  on  the  hopeless  chance  of  some 
one  looking  in,  yawns  in  the  last  extremity  over  the  book  of 
patterns,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  read  that  entertaining  library. 
The  hotels  in  Brook  Street  have  no  one  in  them,  and  the  staves 
of  servants  stare  disconsolately  for  next  season  out  of  .all  the 
windows.  The  very  man  who  goes  about  like  an  erect  Turtle, 
between  two  boards  recommendatory  of  the  Sixteen  Shilling 
Trousers,  is  aware  of  himself  as  a hollow  mockery,  and  eats 
filberts  while  he  leans  his  hinder  shell  against  a wall. 

Among  these  tranquillizing  objects,  it  is  my  delight  to  walk 
and  meditate.  Soothed  by  the  repose  around  me,  I wander 
insensibly  to  considerable  distances,  and  guide  myself  back 
by  the  stars.  Thus,  I enjoy  the  contrast  of  a few  still  par- 
tially inhabited  and  busy  spots  where  all  the  lights  are  not 
fled,  where  all  the  garlands  are  not  dead,  whence  all  but  I 
have  not  departed.  Then,  does  it  appear  to  me  that  in  this 
age  three  things  are  clamorously  required  of  Man  in  the  mis- 
cellaneous thoroughfares  of  the  metropolis.  Firstly,  that  he 
have  his  boots  cleaned.  Secondly,  that  he  eat  a penny  ice. 
Thirdly,  that  he  get  himself  photographed.  Then  do  I spec- 
ulate, What  have  those  seam-worn  artists  been  who  stand  at 
the  photograph  doors  in  Greek  caps,  sample  in  hand^  and 


176 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


mysteriously  salute  the  public — the  female  public  with  a 
pressing  tenderness  — to  come  in  and  be  took  ? What  did 
they  do  with  their  greasy  blandishments,  before  the  era  of 
cheap  photography  ? Of  what  class  were  their  previous  vic- 
tims, and  how  victimized  ? And  how  did  they  get,  and  how 
did  they  pay  for,  that  large  collection  of  likenesses,  all  pur- 
porting to  have  been  taken  inside,  with  the  taking  of  none  of 
which  had  that  establishment  any  more  to  do  than  with  the 
taking  of  Delhi  ? 

But,  these  are  small  oases,  and  I am  soon  back  again  in 
metropolitan  Arcadia.  It  is  my  impression  that  much  of  its 
serene  and  peaceful  character  is  attributable  to  the  absence  of 
customary  Talk.  How  do  I know  but  there  may  be  subtle 
influences  in  Talk,  to  vex  the  souls  of  men  who  donT  hear  it  ? 
How  do  I know  but  that  Talk,  five,  ten,  twenty  miles  off,  may 
get  into  the  air  and  disagree  with  me  ? If  I rise  from  my 
bed,  vaguely  troubled  and  wearied  and  sick  of  my  life,  in  the 
session  of  Parliament,  who  shall  say  that  my  noble  friend,  my 
right  reverend  friend,  my  right  honorable  friend,  my  honora- 
ble friend,  my  honorable  and  learned  friend,  or  my  honorable 
and  gallant  friend,  may  not  be  responsible  for  that  effect 
upon  my  nervous  system  ? Too  much  Ozone  in  the  air,  I am 
informed  and  fully  believe  (though  I have  no  idea  what  it  is), 
would  affect  me  in  a marvellously  disagreeable  way ; why 
may  not  too  much  Talk  ? I don’t  see  or  hear  the  Ozone ; I 
don’t  see  or  hear  the  Talk.  And  there  is  so  much  Talk ; so- 
mu'ch  too  much ; such  loud  cry,  and  such  scant  supply  of 
wool ; such  a deal  of  fleecing,  and  so  little  fleece  ! Hence,  in 
the  Arcadian  season,  I find  it  a delicious  triumph  to  walk 
down  to  deserted  Westminster,  and  see  the  Courts  shut  up  ; 
to  walk  a little  further  and  see  the  Two  Houses  shut  up  ; to 
stand  in  the  Abbey  Yard,  like  the  New  Zealander  of  the 
grand  English  History  (concerning  which  unfortunate  man,  a 
whole  rookery  of  mares’  nests  is  generally  being  discovered), 
and  gloat  upon  the  ruins  of  Talk.  Eeturning  to  my  primi- 
tive solitude  and  lying  down  to  sleep,  my  grateful  heart 
expands  with  the  consciousness  that  there  is  no  adjourned 
Debate,  no  ministerial  explanation,  nobody  to  give  notice  of 
intention  to  ask  the  noble  Lord  at  the  head  of  her  Majesty’s 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


177 


Government  five  and  twenty  bootless  questions  in  one,  no 
term  time  with  legal  argument,  no  Nisi  Prius  with  eloquent 
appeal  to  British  Jury ; that  the  air  will  to-morrow,  and 
to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  remain  untroubled  by  this  super- 
abundant generating  of  Talk.  In  a minor  degree  it  is  a 
delicious  triumph  to  me  to  go  into  the  club,  and  see  the 
carpets  up,  and  the  Bores  and  the  other  dust  dispersed  to  the 
four  winds.  Again  New-Zealander-like,  I stand  on  the  cold 
hearth,  and  say  in  the  solitude,  Here  I watched  Bore  A 1, 
with  voice  always  mysteriously  low  and  head  always  myste- 
riously drooped,  whispering  political  secrets  into  the  ears  of 
Adam’s  confiding  children.  Accursed  be  his  memory  forever 
and  a day  ! ” 

But,  I have  all  this  time  been  coming  to  the  point,  that  the 
happy  nature  of  my  retirement  is  most  sweetly  expressed  in 
its  being  the  abode  of  Love.  It  is,  as  it  were,  an  inexpensive 
Agapemone  ; nobody’s  speculation  : everybody’s  profit.  The 
one  great  result  of  the  resumption  of  primitive  habits,  and 
(convertible  terms)  the  not  having  much  to  do,  is,  the  abound- 
ing of  Love. 

The  Klein  species  are  incapable  of  the  softer  emotions ; 
probably,  in  that  low  nomadic  race,  the  softer  emotions  have 
all  degenerated  into  flue.  But,  with  this  exception,  all  the 
sharers^of  my  retreat  make  love. 

I have  mentioned  Saville  Eow.  We  all  know  the  Doctor’s 
servant.  We  all  know  what  a respectable  man  he  is,  what  a 
hard  dry  man,  what  a firm  man,  what  a confidential  man ; 
how  he  lets  us  into  the  waiting-room,  like  a man  who  knows 
minutely  what  is  the  matter  with  us,  but  from  whom  the  rack 
should  not  wring  the  secret.  In  the  prosaic  season,”  he 
has  distinctly  the  appearance  of  a man  conscious  of  money 
in  the  savings  bank,  and  taking  his  stand  on  his  respectability 
with  both  feet.  At  that  time  it  is  as  impossible  to  associate 
him  with  relaxation,  or  any  human  weakness,  as  it  is  to  meet 
his  eye  without  feeling  guilty  of  indisposition.  In  the  blest 
Arcadian  time,  how  changed ! I have  seen  him  in  a pepper- 
and-salt  jacket  — jacket  — and  drab  trousers,  with  his  arm 
round  the  waist  of  a bootmaker’s  housemaid,  smiling  in  open 
day,  I have  seen  him  at  the  pump  by  the  Albany,  unsolicit- 


178 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


edly  pumping  for  two  fair  young  creatures,  whose  figures  as 
they  bent  over  their  cans,  were  — if  I may  be  allowed  an 
original  expression  — a model  for  the  sculptor.  I have  seen 
him  trying  the  piano  in  the  Doctor’s  drawing-room  with  his 
forefinger,  and  have  heard  him  humming  tunes  in  praise  of 
lovely  woman.  I have  seen  him  seated  on  a fire-engine,  and 
going  (obviously  in  search  of  excitement)  to  a fire.  I saw 
him,  one  moonlight  evening,  when  the  peace  and  purity  of 
our  Arcadian  west  were  at  their  height,  polk  with  the  lovely 
daughter  of  a cleaner  of  gloves,  from  the  doorsteps  of  his 
own  residence,  across  Saville  Eow,  round  by  Clifford  Street 
and  Old  Burlington  Street,  back  to  Burlington-gardens.  Is 
this  the  Golden  Age  revived,  or  Iron  London  ? 

The  Dentist’s  servant.  Is  that  man  no  mystery  to  us,  no 
type  of  invisible  power  ? The  tremendous  individual  knows 
(who  else  does  ?)  what  is  done  with  the  extracted  teeth ; he 
knows  what  goes  on  in  the  little  room  where  something  is 
always  being  washed  or  filed ; he  knows  what  warm  spicy 
infusion  is  put  into  the  comfortable  tumbler  from  which  we 
rinse  our  wounded  mouth,  with  a gap  in  it  that  feels  a foot 
wide ; he  knows  whether  the  thing  we  spit  into  is  a fixture 
communicating  with  the  Thames,  or  could  be  cleared  away 
for  a dance ; he  sees  the  horrible  parlor  when  there  are  no 
patients  in  it,  and  he  could  reveal,  if  he  would,  what  becomes 
of  the  Every-Day  Book  then.  The  conviction  of  my  coward 
conscience  when  I see  that  man  in  a professional  light,  is, 
that  he  knows  all  the  statistics  of  my  teeth  and  gums,  my 
double  teeth,  my  single  teeth,  my  stopped  teeth,  and  my 
sound.  In  this  Arcadian  rest,  I am  fearless  of  him  as  of  a 
harmless,  powerless  creature  in  a Scotch  cap,  who  adores  a 
young  lady  in  a voluminous  crinoline,  at  a neighboring  bil- 
liard-room, and  whose  passion  would  be  uninfluenced  if  every 
one  of  her  teeth  were  false.  They  may  be.  He  takes  them 
all  on  trust. 

In  secluded  corners  of  the  place  of  my  seclusion,  there  are 
little  shops  withdrawn  from  public  curiosity,  and  never  two 
together,  where  servants’  perquisites  are  bought.  The  cook 
may  dispose  of  grease  at  these  modest  and  convenient  marts ; 
the  butler,  of  bottles ; the  valet  and  lady’s  maid;  of  clothes ; 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


179 


most  servants^  indeed,  of  most  things  they  may  happen  to  lay 
hold  of.  I have  been  told  that  in  sterner  times  loving  corre- 
spondence, otherwise  interdicted,  may  be  maintained  by  letter 
through  the  agency  of  some  of  these  useful  establishments. 
In  the  Arcadian  autumn,  no  such  device  is  necessary.  Every- 
body loves,  and  openly  and  blamelessly  loves.  My  landlord’s 
young  man  loves  the  whole  of  one  side  of  the  way  of  Old 
Bond  Street,  and  is  beloved  several  doors  up  New  Bond  Street 
besides.  I never  look  out  of  window  but  I see  kissing  of 
hands  going  on  all  around  me.  It  is  the  morning  custom  to 
glide  from  shop  to  shop  and  exchange  tender  sentiments ; it 
is  the  evening  custom  for  couples  to  stand  hand  in  hand  at 
house  doors,  or  roam,  linked  in  that  flowery  manner,  through 
the  unpeopled  streets.  There  is  nothing  else  to  do  but  love  ; 
and  what  there  is  to  do,  is  done. 

In  unison  with  this  pursuit,  a chaste  simplicity  obtains  in 
the  domestic  habits  of  Arcadia.  Its  few  scattered  people 
dine  early,  live  moderately,  sup  socially,  and  sleep  soundly. 
It  is  rumored  that  the  Beadles  of  the  Arcade,  from  being  the 
mortal  enemies  of  boys,  have  signed  with  tears  an  address  to 
Lord  Shaftesbury,  and  subscribed  to  a ragged  school.  ISTo 
wonder  ! For,  they  might  turn  their  heavy  maces  into  crooks 
and  tend  sheep  in  the  Arcade,  to  the  purling  of  the  water- 
carts  as  they  give  the  thirsty  streets  much  more  to  drink  than 
they  can  carry. 

A happy  Golden  Age,  and  a serene  tranquillity.  Charming 
picture,  but  it  will  fade.  The  iron  age  will  return,  London 
will  come  back  to  town,  if  I show  my  tongue  then  in  Saville 
Kow  for  half  a minute  I shall  be  prescribed  for,  the  Doctor’s 
man  and  the  Dentist’s  man  will  then  pretend  that  these  days 
of  unprofessional  innocence  never  existed.  Where  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Klein  and  their  bed  will  be  at  that  time,  passes  human 
knowledge ; but  my  hatter  hermitage  will  then  know  them 
no  more,  nor  will  it  then  know  me.  The  desk  at  which  I have 
written  these  meditations  will  retributively  assist  at  the 
making-out  of  my  account,  and  the  wheels  of  gorgeous  car- 
riages and  the  hoofs  of  high-stepping  horses  will  crush  the 
silence  out  of  Bond  Street  — will  grind  Arcadia  away,  and 
give  it  to  the  elements  in  granite  powder. 


180 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XVII. 

THE  CALAIS  NIGHT-MAIL. 

It  is  an  unsettled  question  with  me  whether  I shall  leave 
Calais  something  handsome  in  my  will,  or  whether  I shall 
leave  it  my  malediction.  I hate  it  so  much,  and  yet  I am 
always  so  very  glad  to  see  it,  that  I am  in  a state  of  constant 
indecision  on  this  subject. 

When  I first  made  acquaintance  with  Calais,  it  was  as  a 
maundering  young  wretch  in  a clammy  perspiration  and  drip- 
ping saline  particles,  who  was  conscious  of  no  extremities  but 
the  one  great  extremity,  sea-sickness  — who  was  a mere  bilious 
torso,  with  a mislaid  headache  somewhere  in  its  stomach  — 
who  had  been  put  into  a horrible  swing  in  Dover  Harbor,  and 
had  tumbled  giddily  out  of  it  on  the  French  coast,  or  the  Isle 
Man,  or  anywhere.  Times  have  changed,  and  now  I enter 
Calais  self-reliant  and  rational.  I know  where  it  is  before- 
hand, I keep  a look  out  for  it,  I recognize  its  landmarks  when 
I see  any  of  them,  I am  acquainted  with  its  ways,  and  I know 
— and  I can  bear  — its  worst  behavior. 

Malignant  Calais  ! Low-lying  alligator,  evading  the  eye- 
sight and  discouraging  hope ! Dodging  flat  streak,  now  on 
this  bow,  now  on  that,  now  anywhere,  now  everywhere,  now 
nowhere ! In  vain  Cape  Grinez,  coming  frankly  forth  into 
the  sea,  exhorts  the  failing  to  be  stout  of  heart  and  stomach : 
sneaking  Calais,  prone  behind  its  bar,  invites  emetically  to 
despair.  Even  when  it  can  no  longer  quite  conceal  itself  in 
its  muddy  dock,  it  has  an  evil  way  of  falling  off,  has  Calais, 
which  is  more  hopeless  than  its  invisibility.  The  pier  is  all 
but  on  the  bowsprit,  and  you  think  you  are  there  — roll,  roar, 
wash ! — Calais  has  retired  miles  inland,  and  Dover  has  burst 
out  to  look  for  it.  It  has  a last  dip  and  slide  in  its  character, 
has  Calais,  to  be  especially  commended  to  the  infernal  gods. 
Thrice  accursed  be  that  garrison-town,  when  it  dives  under 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


181 


the  boat’s  keel,  and  comes  up  a league  or  two  to  the  right, 
with  the  packet  shivering  and  spluttering  and  staring  about 
for  it ! . 

Not  but  what  I have  my  animosities  towards  Dover.  I 
particularly  detest  Dover  for  the  self-complacency  with  which 
it  goes  to  bed.  It  always  goes  to  bed  (when  I am  going  to 
Calais)  with  a more  brilliant  display  of  lamp  and  candle  than 
any  other  town.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birmingham,  host  and  hostess 
of  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel,  are  my  much  esteemed  friends, 
but  they  are  too  conceited  about  the  comforts  of  that  establish- 
ment when  the  Night  Mail  is  starting.  I know  it  is  a good 
house  to  stay  at,  and  I don’t  want  the  fact  insisted  upon  in 
all  its  warm  bright  windows  at  such  an  hour.  I know  the 
Warden  is  a stationary  edifice  that  never  rolls  or  pitches,  and 
I object  to  its  big  outline  seeming  to  insist  upon  that  circum- 
stance, and,  as  it  were,  to  come  over  me  with  it,  when  I am 
reeling  on  the  deck  of  the  boat.  Beshrew  the  Warden  like- 
wise, for  obstructing  that  corner,  and  making  the  wind  so 
angry  as  it  rushes  round.  Shall  I not  know  that  it  blows  quite 
soon  enough,  without  the  officious  Warden’s  interference  ? 

As  I wait  here  on  board  the  night  packet,  for  the  South- 
Eastern  Train  to  come  down  with  the  Mail,  Dover  appears  to 
me  to  be  illuminated  for  some  intensely  aggravating  festivity 
ill  my  personal  dishonor.  All  its  noises  smack  of  taunting 
praises  of  the  land,  and  dispraises  of  the  gloomy  sea,  and  of 
me  for  going  on  it.  The  drums  upon  the  heights  have  gone 
to  bed,  or  I know  they  would  rattle  taunts  against  me  for 
having  my  unsteady  footing  on  this  slippery  deck.  The  many 
gas  eyes  of  the  Marine  Parade  twinkle  in  an  offensive  manner, 
as  if  with  derision.  The  distant  dogs  of  Dover  bark  at  me  in 
my  misshapen  wrappers,  as  if  I were  Bichard  the  Third. 

A screech,  a bell,  and  two  red  eyes  come  gliding  down  the 
Admiralty  Pier  with  a smoothness  of  motion  rendered  more 
smooth  by  the  heaving  of  the  boat.  The  sea  makes  noises 
against  the  pier,  as  if  several  hippopotami  were  lapping  at  it, 
and  were  prevented  by  circumstances  over  which  they  had  no 
control  from  drinking  peaceably.  We,  the  boat,  become  vio- 
lently agitated  — rumble,  hum,  scream,  roar,  and  establish  an 
immense  family  washing-day  at  each  paddle-box.  Bright  patches 


182 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


break  out  in  tbe  train  as  the  doors  of  the  post-office  vans  are 
opened,  and  instantly  stooping  figures  with  sacks  upon  their 
backs  begin  to  be  beheld  among  the  piles,  descending  as  it 
would  seem  in  ghostly  procession  to  Davy  Jones’s  Locker. 
The  passengers  come  on  board;  a few  shadowy  Frenchmen, 
with  hat-boxes  shaped  like  the  stoppers  of  gigantfc  case-bottles ; 
a few  shadowy  Germans  in  immense  fur  coats  and  boots;  a few 
shadowy  Englishmen  prepared  for  the  worst  and  pretending 
not  to  expect  it.  I cannot  disguise  from  my  uncommercial 
mind  the  miserable  fact  that  we  are  a body  of  outcasts ; that 
the  attendants  on  us  are  as  scant  in  number  as  may  serve  to 
get  rid  of  us  with  the  least  possible  delay ; that  there  are  no 
night  loungers  interested  in  us ; that  the  unwilling  lamps  shiver 
and  shudder  at  us ; that  the  sole  object  is  to  commit  us  to  the 
deep  and  abandon  us.  Lo,  the  two  red  eyes  glaring  in  increas- 
ing distance,  and  then  the  very  train  itself  has  gone  to  bed 
before  we  are  off ! 

What  is  the  moral  support  derived  by  some  sea-going 
amateurs  from  an  umbrella?  Why  do  certain  voyagers  across 
the  Channel  always  put  up  that  article,  and  hold  it  up  with  a 
grim  and  fierce  tenacity  ? A fellow-creature  near  me  — whom 
I only  know  to  he  a fellow-creature,  because  of  his  umbrella : 
without  which  he  might  be  a dark  bit  of  cliff,  pier,  or  bulkhead 
— clutches  that  instrument  with  a desperate  grasp,  that  will 
not  relax  until  he  lands  at  Calais.  Is  there  any  analogy,  in 
certain  constitutions,  between  keeping  an  umbrella  up,  and 
keeping  the  spirits  up  ? A hawser  thrown  on  board  with  a 
flop  replies  Stand  by  ! ” Stand  by,  below ! ” Half  a turn 
a head  ! ” Half  a turn  a head  ! ” Half  speed ! ” Half 
speed  ! ” Port ! ” ‘‘  Port ! ” Steady ! ” Steady ! ” Go 
on  ! ” Go  on  ! ” 

A stout  wooden  wedge  driven  in  at  my  right  temple  and 
out  at  my  left,  a floating  deposit  of  lukewarm  oil  in  my 
throat,  and  a compression  of  the  bridge  of  my  nose  in  a blunt 
pair  of  pincers,  — these  are  the  personal  sensations  by  which 
I know  we  are  off,  and  by  which  I shall  continue  to  know  it 
until  I am  on  the  soil  of  France.  My  symptoms  have  scarcely 
established  themselves  comfortably,  when  two  or  three  skat- 
ing shadows  that  have  been  trying  to  walk  or  stand,  get  flung 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


183 


together,  and  other  two  or  three  shadows  in  tarpauling  slide 
with  them  into  corners  and  cover  them  up.  Then  the  South 
Foreland  lights  begin  to  hiccup  at  us  in  a way  that  bodes  no 
good. 

It  is  at  about  this  period  that  my  detestation  of  Calais 
knows  no  bounds.  Inwardly  I resolve  afresh  that  I never  will 
forgive  that  hated  town.  I have  done  so  before,  many  times, 
but  that  is  past.  Let  me  register  a vow.  Imj^lacable  ani- 
mosity to  Calais  everm — that  was  an  awkward  sea,  and  the 
funnel  seems  of  my  opinion,  for  it  gives  a complaining  roar. 

The  wind  blows  stiffly  from  the  NoF-East,  the  sea  runs 
high,  we  ship  a deal  of  water,  the  night  is  dark  and  cold,  and 
the  shapeless  passengers  lie  about  in  melancholy  bundles,  as 
if  they  were  sorted  out  for  the  laundress  ; but  for  my  own 
uncommercial  part  I cannot  pretend  that  I am  much  incon- 
venienced by  any  of  these  things.  A general  howling  whis- 
tling flopping  gurgling  and  scooping,  I am  aware  of,  and  a 
general  knocking  about  of  ISTature ; but  the  impressions  I 
receive  are  very  vague.  In  a sweet  faint  temper,  something 
like  the  smell  of  damaged  oranges,  I think  I should  feel 
languidly  benevolent  if  I had  time.  I have  not  time,  because 
I am  under  a curious  compulsion  to  occupy  myself  with  the 
Irish  melodies.  Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore,’’ 
is  the  particular  melody  to  which  I find  myself  devoted.  I 
sing  it  to  myself  in  the  most  charming  manner  and  with  the 
greatest  expression.  'Now  and  then,  I raise  my  head  (I  am 
sitting  on  the  hardest  of  wet  seats,  in  the  most  uncomfortable 
of  wet  attitudes,  but  I don’t  mind  it),  and  notice  that  I am  a 
whirling  shuttlecock  between  a fiery  battledoor  of  a lighthouse 
on  the  French  coast  and  a fiery  battledoor  of  a lighthouse  on 
the  English  coast ; but  I don’t  notice  it  particularly,  except 
to  feel  envenomed  in  my  hatred  of  Calais.  Then  I go  on 
again,  ^^Rich  and  rare  were  the  ge-ems  she-e-e-e  wore.  And 
a bright  gold  ring  on  her  wa-and  she  bo-ore.  But  0 her 
beauty  was  fa-a-a-a-r  beyond”  — I am  particularly  proud  of 
my  execution  here,  when  I become  aware  of  another  awkward 
shock  from  the  sea,  and  another  protest  from  the  funnel,  and 
a fellow-creature  at  the  paddle-box  more  audibly  indisposed 
than  I think  he  need  be  — Her  sparkling  gems,  or  snow- 


184 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


white  wand,  But  0 her  beauty  was  faa-a-a-a-r  beyond’^  — 
another  awkward  one  here,  and  the  fellow-creature  with  the 
umbrella  down  and  picked  up,  Her  spa-a-rkling  ge-e-ms,  or 
her  Port!  port!  steady!  steady!  -snow-white  fellow-creature 
at  the  paddle-box  very  selfishly  audible,  bump  roar  wash 
white  wand.’^ 

As  my  execution  of  the  Irish  melodies  partakes  of  my 
imperfect  perceptions  of  what  is  going  on  around  me,  so  what 
is  going  on  around  me  becomes  something  else  than  what  it 
is.  The  stokers  open  the  furnace  doors  below,  to  feed  the 
fires,  and  I am  again  on  the  box  of  the  old  Exeter  Telegraph 
fast  coach,  and  that  is  the  light  of  the  forever  extinguished 
coach-lamps,  and  the  gleam  on  the  hatches  and  paddle-boxes 
is  theh*  gleam  on  cottages  and  haystacks,  and  the  monotonous 
noise  of  the  engines  is  the  steady  jingle  of  the  splendid  team. 
Anon,  the  intermittent  funnel  roar  of  protest  at  every  violent 
roll,  becomes  the  regular  blast  of  a high-pressure  engine,  and 
I recognize  the  exceedingly  explosive  steamer  in  which  I 
ascended  the  Mississippi  when  the  American  civil  war  was  not, 
and  when  only  its  causes  were.  A fragment  of  mast  on  which 
the  light  of  a lantern  falls,  an  end  of  rope,  and  a jerking 
block  or  so,  become  suggestive  of  Franconi’s  Circus  at  Paris, 
where  I shall  be  this  very  night  mayhap  (for  it  must  be 
morning  now),  and  they  dance  to  the  selfsame  time  and  tune 
as  the  trained  steed.  Black  Eaven.  What  may  be  the  spe- 
ciality of  these  waves  as  they  come  rushing  on,  I cannot  desert 
the  pressing  demands  made  upon  me  by  the  gems  she  wore, 
to  inquire,  but  they  are  charged  with  something  about  Eobin- 
son  Crusoe,  and  I think  it  was  in  Yarmouth  Eoads  that  he 
first  went  a-seafaring  and  was  near  foundering  (what  a terrific 
sound  that  word  had  for  me  when  I was  a boy !)  in  his  first 
gale  of  wind.  Still,  through  all  this,  I must  ask  her  (who 
teas  she  I wonder !)  for  the  fiftieth  time,  and  without  ever 
stopping.  Does  she  not  fear  to  stray.  So  lone  and  lovely 
through  this  bleak  way.  And  are  Erin’s  sons  so  good  or  so 
cold.  As  not  to  be  tempted  by  more  fellow-creatures  at  the 
paddle-box  or  gold  ? Sir  Knight  I feel  not  the  least  alarm. 
No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm.  For  though  they  love 
fellow-creature  with  umbrella  down  again  and  golden  store, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


185 


Sir  Knight  they  what  a tremendous  one  love  honor  and  virtue 
more : For  though  they  love  Stewards  with  a bull’s  eye 
bright,  they’ll  trouble  you  for  your  ticket,  sir — rough  passage 
to-night ! 

I freely  admit  it  to  be  a miserable  piece  of  human  weak- 
ness and  inconsistency,  but  I no  sooner  become  conscious  of 
those  last  words  from  the  steward  than  I begin  to  soften 
towards  Calais.  Whereas  I have  been  vindictively  wishing 
that  those  Calais  burghers  who  came  out  of  their  town  by  a 
short  cut  into  the  History  of  England,  with  those  fatal  ropes 
round  their  necks  by  which  they  have  since  been  towed  into 
so  many  cartoons,  had  all  been  hanged  on  the  spot,  I now 
begin  to  regard  them  as  highly  respectable  and  virtuous 
tradesmen.  Looking  about  me,  I see  the  light  of  Cape  Grinez 
well  astern  of  the  boat  on  the  davits  to  leeward,  and  the  light 
of  Calais  Harbor  undeniably  at  its  old  tricks,  but  still  ahead 
and  shining.  Sentiments  of  forgiveness  of  Calais,  not  to  say 
attachment  to  Calais,  begin  to  expand  my  bosom.  I have 
weak  notions  that  I will  stay  there  a day  or  two  on  my  way 
back.  A faded  and  recumbent  stranger  pausing  in  a profound 
reverie  over  the  rim  of  a basin,  asked  me  what  kind  of  place 
Calais  is  ? I tell  him  (Heaven  forgive  me  !)  a very  agreeable 
place  indeed  — rather  hilly  than  otherwise. 

So  strangely  goes  the  time,  and  on  the  whole  so  quickly  — 
though  still  I seem  to  have  been  on  board  a week  — that  I am 
bumped  rolled  gurgled  washed  and  pitched  into  Calais  Har- 
bor before  her  maiden  smile  has  finally  lighted  her  through 
the  Green  Isle,  When  blest  forever  is  she  who  relied.  On 
entering  Calais  at  the  top  of  the  tide.  For  we  have  not  to 
land  to-night  down  among  those  slimy  timbers  — covered  with 
green  hair  as  if  it  were  the  mermaids’  favorite  combing-place 
— where  one  crawls  to  the  surface  of  the  jetty,  like  a stranded 
shrimp,  but  we  go  steaming  up  the  harbor  to  the  Kailway 
Station  Quay.  And  as  we  go,  the  sea  washes  in  and  out 
among  piles  and  planks,  with  dead  heavy  beats  and  in  quite  a 
furious  manner  (whereof  we  are  proud),  and  the  lamps  shake 
in  the  wind,  and  the  bells  of  Calais  striking  One  seem  to  send 
their  vibrations  struggling  against  troubled  air,  as  we  have 
come  struggling  against  troubled  water.  And  now,  in  the 


186 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


sudden  relief  and  wiping  of  faces,  everybody  on  board  seems 
to  have  had  a prodigious  double-tooth  out,  and  to  be  this 
very  instant  free  of  the  Dentist’s  hands.  And  now  we  all 
know  for  the  first  time  how  wet  and  cold  we  are,  and  how  salt 
we  are ; and  now  I love  Calais  with  my  heart  of  hearts ! 

Hotel  Dessin!”  (but  in  this  one  case  it  is  not  a vocal 
cry ; it  is  but  a bright  lustre  in  the  eyes  of  the  cheery  repre- 
sentative of  that  best  of  inns).  Hotel  Meurice  ! ” Hotel 
de  France!”  ^CHotel  de  Calais!”  ^^The  Hoyal  Hotel,  Sir, 
Angaishe  ouse!”  ^^You  are  going  to  Parry,  Sir?”  ^^Your 
baggage,  registair  froo.  Sir  ! ” Bless  ye,  my  Touters,  bless 
ye,  my  commissionaires,  bless  ye,  my  hungry-eyed  mysteries 
in  caps  of  a military  form,  who  are  always  here,  day  or 
night,  fair  weather  or  foul,  seeking  inscrutable  jobs  which  I 
never  see  you  get ! Bless  ye,  my  Custom  House  officers  in 
green  and  gray ; permit  me  to  grasp  the  welcome  hands  that 
descend  into  my  travelling-bag,  one  on  each  side,  and  meet 
at  the  bottom  to  give  my  change  of  linen  a peculiar  shake-up, 
as  if  it  were  a measure  of  chaff  or  grain ! I have  nothing  to 
declare.  Monsieur  le  Douanier,  except  that  when  I cease  to 
breathe,  Calais  will  be  found  written  on  my  heart.  No  arti- 
cle liable  to  local  duty  have  I with  me.  Monsieur  I’Officier  de 
rOctroi,  unless  the  overflowing  of  a breast  devoted  to  your 
charming  town  should  be  in  that  wise  chargeable.  Ah  ! see 
at  the  gangway  by  the  twinkling  lantern,  my  dearest  brother 
and  friend,  he  once  of  the  Passport  Office,  he  who  collects  the 
names  ! May  he  be  forever  changeless  in  his  buttoned  black 
surtout,  with  his  note-book  in  his  hand,  and  his  tall  black 
hat,  surmounting  his  round  smiling  patient  face ! Let  us 
embrace,  my  dearest  brother.  I am  yours  a tout  jamais  — 
the  whole  of  ever. 

Calais  up  and  doing  at  the  railway  station,  and  Calais  down 
and  dreaming  in  its  bed;  Calais  with  something  of  ^^an 
ancient  and  fish-like  smell”  about  it,  and  Calais  blown  and 
sea-washed  pure ; Calais  represented  at  the  Buffet  by  savory 
roast  fowls,  hot  coffee,  cognac,  and  Bordeaux ; and  Calais 
represented  everywhere  by  flitting  persons  with  a monomania 
for  changing  money  — though  I never  shall  be  able  to  under- 
stand in  my  present  state  of  existence  how  they  live  by  it, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


187 


but  I suppose  I should,  if  I understood  the  currency  question 
— Calais  en  gros  and  Calais  en  detail^  forgive  one  who  has 
deeply  wronged  you.  — I was  not  fully  aware  of  it  on  the 
other  side,  but  I meant  Dover. 

Ding,  ding ! To  the  carriages,  gentlemen  the  travellers. 
Ascend  then,  gentlemen  the  travellers,  for  Hazebroucke, 
Lille,  Douai,  Bruxelles,  Arras,  Amiens,  and  Paris  ! I,  humble 
representative  of  the  uncommercial  interest,  ascend  with  the 
rest.  The  train  is  light  to-night,  and  I share  my  compart- 
ment with  but  two  fellow-travellers  ; one,  a compatriot  in  an 
obsolete  cravat,  who  thinks  it  a quite  unaccountable  thing 
that  they  don’t  keep  London  time  ” on  a French  railway, 
and  who  is  made  angry  by  my  modestly  suggesting  the  pos- 
sibility of  Paris  time  being  more  in  their  way  ; the  other,  a 
young  priest,  with  a very  small  bird  in  a very  small  cage, 
who  feeds  the  small  bird  with  a quill,  and  then  puts  him  up 
in  the  network  above  his  head,  where  he  advances  twittering, 
to  his  front  wires,  and  seems  to  address  me  in  an  electioneer- 
ing manner.  The  compatriot  (who  crossed  in  the  boat,  and 
whom  I judge  to  be  some  person  of  distinction,  as  he  w^as 
shut  up,  like  a stately  species  of  rabbit,  in  a private  hutch  on 
deck)  and  the  young  priest  (who  joined  us  at  Calais)  are  soon 
asleep,  and  then  the  bird  and  I have  it  all  to  ourselves. 

A stormy  night  still ; a night  that  sweeps  the  wires  of  the 
electric  telegraph  with  a wild  and  fitful  hand ; a night  so 
very  stormy,  with  the  added  storm  of  the  train-progress 
through  it,  that  when  the  Guard  comes  clambering  round  to 
mark  the  tickets  while  we  are  at  full  speed  (a  really  horrible 
performance  in  an  express  train,  though  he  holds  on  to  the 
open  window  by  his  elbows  in  the  most  deliberate  manner), 
he  stands  in  such  a whirlwind  that  I grip  him  fast  by  the 
collar,  and  feel  it  next  to  manslaughter  to  let  him  go.  Still, 
when  he  is  gone,  the  small  small  bird  remains  at  his  front 
wires  feebly  twittering  to  me  — twittering  and  twittering, 
until,  leaning  back  in  my  place  and  looking  at  him  in  drowsy 
fascination,  I find  that  he  seems  to  jog  my  memory  as  we 
rush  along. 

Uncommercial  travels  (thus  the  small  small  bird)  have  lain 
in  their  idle  thriftless  way  through  all  this  range  of  swamp 


188 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


and  dike,  as  through  many  other  odd  places  ; and  about  here, 
as  you  very  well  know,  are  the  queer  old  stone  farmhouses, 
approached  by  drawbridges,  and  the  windmills  that  you  get  at 
by  boats.  Here,  are  the  lands  where  the  women  hoe  and  dig, 
paddling  canoe-wise  from  field  to  field,  and  here  are  the  caba- 
rets and  other  peasant-houses  where  the  stone  dove-cotes  in 
the  littered  yards  are  as  strong  as  warders’  towers  in  old 
castles.  Here,  are  the  long  monotonous  miles  of  canal,  with 
the  great  Dutch-built  barges  garishly  painted,  and  the  tow- 
ing-girls,  sometimes  harnessed  by  the  forehead,  sometimes  by 
the  girdle  and  the  shoulders,  not  a pleasant  sight  to  see. 
Scattered  through  this  country  are  mighty  works  of  Vauban, 
whom  you  know  about,  and  regiments  of  such  corporals  as 
you  heard  of  once  upon  a time,  and  many  a blue-eyed  Bebelle. 
Through  these  fiat  districts,  in  the  shining  summer  days,  walk 
those  long  grotesque  files  of  young  novices  in  enormous  shovel- 
hats,  whom  you  remember  blackening  the  ground  checkered 
by  the  avenues  of  leafy  trees.  And  now  that  Hazebroucke 
slumbers ‘certain  kilometres  ahead,  recall  the  summer  evening 
when  your  dusty  feet  strolling  up  from  the  station  tended 
hap-hazard  to  a Fair  there,  where  the  oldest  inhabitants  were 
circling  round  and  round  a barrel-organ  on  hobby-horses,  with 
the  greatest  gravity,  and  where  the  principal  show  in  the  Fair 
was  a Religious  Richardson’s  — literally,  on  its  own  announce- 
ment in  great  letters.  Theatre  Religieux.  In  which  im- 
proving Temple,  the  dramatic  representation  was  of  all  the 
interesting  events  in  the  life  of  our  Lord,  from  the  Manger  to 
the  Tomb;”  the  principal  female  character,  without  any 
reservation  or  exception,  being  at  the  moment  of  your  arrival, 
engaged  in  trimming  the  external  Moderators  (as  it  was  grow- 
ing dusk),  while  the  next  principal  female  character  took  the 
money,  and  the  Young  Saint  John  disported  himself  upside 
down  on  the  platform. 

Looking  up  at  this  point  to  confirm  the  small  small  bird  in 
every  particular  he  has  mentioned,  I find  he  has  ceased  to 
twitter,  and  has  put  his  head  under  his  wing.  Therefore,  in 
my  different  way  I follow  the  good  example. 


THE  UNC0M3IEBCIAL  TEAVELLEE. 


189 


XVIII. 

SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MORTALITY. 

I HAD  parted  from  the  small  bird  at  somewhere  about  four 
o’clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  had  got  out  at  Arras,  and 
had  been  received  by  two  shovel-hats  in  waiting  at  the  station, 
who  presented  an  appropriately  ornithological  and  crow-like 
appearance.  My  compatriot  and  I had  gone  on  to  Paris  ; my 
compatriot  enlightening  me  occasionally  with  a long  list  of 
the  enormous  grievances  of  French  railway  travelling : every 
one  of  which,  as  I am  a sinner,  was  perfectly  new  to  me, 
though  I have  as  much  experience  of  French  railways  as  most 
uncommercials.  I had  left  him  at  the  terminus  (through  his 
conviction,  against  all  explanation  and  remonstrance,  that  his 
baggage-ticket  was  his  passenger-ticket),  insisting  in  a very 
high  temper  to  the  functionary  on  duty,  that  in  his  own  per- 
sonal identity  he  was  four  packages  weighing  so  many  kilo- 
grams — as  if  he  had  been  Cassim  Baba ! I had  bathed  and 
breakfasted,  and  was  strolling  on  the  bright  quays.  The 
subject  of  my  meditations  was  the  question  whether  it  is 
positively  in  the  essence  and  nature  of  things,  as  a certain 
school  of  Britons  would  seem  to  think  it,  that  a Capital  must 
be  insnared  and  enslaved  before  it  can  be  made  beautiful : 
when  I lifted  up  my  eyes  and  found  that  my  feet,  straying  like 
my  mind,  had  brought  me  to  Xotre  Dame. 

That  is  to  say,  Xotre  Dame  was  before  me,  but  there  was  a 
large  open  space  between  us.  A very  little  while  gone,  I had 
left  that  space  covered  with  buildings  densely  crowded;  and 
now  it  was  cleared  for  some  new  wonder  in  the  way  of  public 
Street,  Place,  Garden,  Fountain,  or  all  four.  Only  the  obscene 
little  Morgue,  slinking  on  the  brink  of  the  river  and  soon  to 
come  down,  was  left  there,  looking  mortally  ashamed  of  itself, 
and  supremely  wicked.  I had  but  glanced  at  this  old  acquaint- 
ance, when  I beheld  an  airy  procession  coming  round  in  front 


190 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


of  Notre  Dame,  past  the  great  hospital.  It  had  something  of 
a Masaniello  look,  with  fluttering  striped  curtains  in  the  midst 
of  it,  and  it  came  dancing  round  the  cathedral  in  the  liveliest 
manner. 

I was  speculating  on  a marriage  in  Blouse-life,  or  a Christ- 
tening,  or  some  other  domestic  festivity  which  I would  see 
out,  when  I found,  from  the  talk  of  a quick  rush  of  Blouses 
past  me,  that  it  was  a Body  coming  to  the  Morgue.  Having 
never  before  chanced  upon  this  initiation,  I constituted 
myself  a Blouse  likewise,  and  ran  into  the  Morgue  with  the 
rest.  It  was  a very  muddy  day,  and  we  took  in  a quantity  of 
mire  with  us,  and  the  procession  coming  in  upon  our  heels, 
brought  a quantity  more.  The  procession  was  in  the  highest 
spirits,  and  consisted  of  idlers  who  had  come  with  the  cur- 
tained litter  from  its  starting-place,  and  of  all  the  re-enforce- 
ments  it  had  picked  up  by  the  way.  It  set  the  litter  down  in 
the  midst  of  the  Morgue,  and  then  two  Custodians  proclaimed 
aloud  that  we  were  all  invited’^  to  go  out.  This  invitation 
was  rendered  the  more  pressing,  if  not  the  more  flattering,  by 
our  being  shoved  out,  and  the  folding-gates  being  barred  upon  us. 

Those  who  have  never  seen  the  Morgue,  may  see  it  perfectly, 
by  presenting  to  themselves  an  indifferently  paved  coach- 
house accessible  from  the  street  by  a pair  of  folding-gates  ; on 
the  left  of  the  coach-house,  occupying  its  width,  any  lalge 
London  tailor’s  or  linendraper’s  plate-glass  window  reaching 
to  the  ground ; within  the  window,  on  two  rows  of  inclined 
planes,  what  the  coach-house  has  to  show ; hanging  above,  like 
irregular  stalactites  from  the  roof  of  a cave,  a quantity  of 
clothes  — the  clothes  of  the  dead  and  buried  shows  of  the 
coach-house. 

We  had  been  excited  in  the  highest  degree  by  seeing  the 
Custodians  pull  off  their  coats  and  tuck  up  their  shirt-sleeves, 
as  the  procession  came  along.  It  looked  so  interestingly  like 
business.  Shut  out  in  the  muddy  street,  we  now  became  quite 
ravenous  to  know  all  about  it.  Was  it  river,  pistol,  knife, 
love,  gambling,  robbery,  hatred,  how  many  stabs,  how  many 
bullets,  fresh  or  decomposed,  suicide  or  murder  ? All  wedged 
together,  and  'all  staring  at  one  another  with  our  heads  thrust 
forward,  we  propounded  these  inquiries  and  a hundred  more 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


191 


such.  Imperceptibly,  it  came  to  be  known  that  Monsieur  the 
tall  and  sallow  mason  yonder,  was  acquainted  with  the  facts. 
Would  Monsieur  the  tall  and  sallow  mason,  surged  at  by  a 
new  wave  of  us,  have  the  goodness  to  impart  ? It  was  but  a 
poor  old  man,  passing  along  the  street  under  one  of  the  new 
buildings,  on  whom  a stone  had  fallen,  and  who  had  tumbled 
dead.  His  age  ? Another  wave  surged  up  against  the  tall 
and  sallow  mason,  and  our  wave  swept  on  and  broke,  and  he 
was  any  age  from  sixty-five  to  ninety. 

An  old  man  was  not  much  : moreover,  we  could  have  wished 
he  had  been  killed  by  human  agency  — his  own,  or  somebody 
else’s : the  latter,  preferable  — but  our  comfort  was,  that  he 
had  nothing  about  him  to  lead  to  his  identification,  and  that 
his  people  must  seek  him  here.  Perhaps  they  were  waiting 
dinner  for  him  even  now  ? We  liked  that.  Such  of  us  as 
had  pocket-handkerchiefs  took  a slow  intense  protracted  wipe 
at  our  noses,  and  then  crammed  our  handkerchiefs  into  the 
breast  of  our  blouses.  Others  of  us  who  had  no  handkerchiefs 
administered  a similar  relief  to  our  overwrought  minds,  by 
means  of  prolonged  smears  or  wipes  of  our  mouths  on  our 
sleeves.  One  man  with  a gloomy  malformation  of  brow  — a 
homicidal  worker  in  white-lead,  to  judge  from  his  blue  tone  of 
color,  and  a certain  flavor  of  paralysis  pervading  him  — got 
his  coat-collar  between  his  teeth,  and  bit  at  it  with  an  appe- 
tite. Several  decent  women  arrived  upon  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd,  and  prepared  to  launch  themselves  into  the  dismal 
coach-house  when  opportunity  should  come ; among  them,  a 
pretty  young  mother,  pretending  to  bite  the  forefinger  of  her 
baby-boy,  kept  it  between  her  rosy  lips  that  it  might  be  handy 
for  guiding  to  point  at  the  show.  Meantime,  all  faces  were 
turned  towards  the  building,  and  we  men  waited  with  a fixed 
and  stern  resolution  : — for  the  most  part  with  folded  arms. 
Surely,  it  was  the  only  public  French  sight  these  uncommer- 
cial eyes  had  seen,  at  which  the  expectant  people  did  not  form 
en  queue.  But  there  was  no  such  order  of  arrangement  here ; 
nothing  but  a general  determination  to  make  a rush  for  it,  and 
a disposition  to  object  to  some  boys  who  had  mounted  on  the 
two  stone  posts  by  the  hinges  of  the  gates,  with  the  design 
of  swooping  in  when  the  hinges  should  turn. 


192 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


Now,  they  turned,  and  we  rushed ! Great  pressure,  and  a 
scream  or  two  from  the  front.  Then  a laugh  or  two,  some 
expressions  of  disappointment,  and  a slackening  of  the  press- 
ure and  subsidence  of  the  struggle.  — Old  man  not  there. 

But  what  would  you  have  ? ’’  the  Custodian  reasonably 
argues,  as  he  looks  out  at  his  little  door.  Patience,  patience  ! 
We  make  his  toilette,  gentlemen.  He  will  be  exposed  pres- 
ently. It  is  necessary  to  proceed  according  to  rule.  His 
toilette  is  not  made  all  at  a blow.  He  will  be  exposed  in 
good  time,  gentlemen,  in  good  time.’’  And  so  retires,  smok- 
ing, with  a wave  of  his  sleeveless  arm  towards  the  window, 
importing,  Entertain  yourselves  in  the  mean  while  with  the 
other  curiosities.  Fortunately  the  Museum  is  not  empty  to- 
day.” 

W^ho  would  have  thought  of  public  fickleness  even  at  the 
Morgue  ? But  there  it  was,  on  that  occasion.  Three  lately 
popular  articles  that  had  been  attracting  greatly  when  the 
litter  was  first  descried  coming  dancing  round  the  corner  by 
the  great  cathedral,  were  so  completely  deposed  now,  that 
nobody  save  two  little  girls  (one  showing  them  to  a doll) 
would  look  at  them.  Yet  the  chief  of  the  three,  the  article  in 
the  front  row,  had  received  jagged  injury  of  the  left  temple ; 
and  the  other  two  in  the  back  row,  the  drowned  two  lying 
side  by  side  with  their  heads  very  slightly  turned  towards  each 
other,  seemed  to  be  comparing  notes  about  it.  Indeed,  those 
two  of  the  back  row  were  so  furtive  of  appearance,  and  so  (in 
their  puffed  way)  assassinatingly  knowing  as  to  the  one  of 
the  front,  that  it  was  hard  to  think  the  three  had  never  come 
together  in  their  lives,  and  were  only  chance  companions  after 
death.  Whether  or  no  this  was  the  general,  as  it  was  the 
uncommercial,  fancy,  it  is  not  to  be  disputed  that  the  group 
had  drawn  exceedingly  within  ten  minutes.  Yet  now,  the  in- 
constant public  turned  its  back  upon  them,  and  even  leaned 
its  elbows  carelessly  against  the  bar  outside  the  window  and 
shook  off  the  mud  from  its  shoes,  and  also  lent  and  borrowed 
fire  for  pipes. 

Custodian  re-enters  from  his  door,  Again  once,  gentlemen, 
you  are  invited  ” — No  further  invitation  necessary.  Ready 
dash  into  the  street.  Toilet  finished.  Old  man  coming  out. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


193 


This  timGj  the  interest  was  grown  too  hot  to  admit  of  tolera- 
tion of  the  boys  on  the  stone  posts.  The  homicidal  white- 
lead  worker  made  a pounce  upon  one  boy  who  was  hoisting 
himself  up,  and  brought  him  to  earth  amidst  general  com- 
mendation. Closely  stowed  as  we  were,  we  yet  formed  into 
groups  — groups  of  conversation,  without  separation  from  the 
mass  — to  discuss  the  old  man.  Rivals  of  the  tall  and  sallow 
mason  sprang  into  being,  and  here  again  was  popular  incon- 
stancy. These  rivals  attracted  audiences,  and  were  greedily 
listened  to ; and  whereas  they  had  derived  their  information 
solely  from  the  tall  and  sallow  one,  officious  members  of  the 
crowd  now  sought  to  enlighten  him  on  their  authority. 
Changed  by  this  social  experience  into  an  iron-visaged  and 
inveterate  misanthrope,  the  mason  glared  at  mankind,  and 
evidently  cherished  in  his  breast  the  wish  that  the  whole  of 
the  present  company  could  change  places  with  the  deceased 
old  man.  And  now  listeners  became  inattentive,  and  people 
made  a start  forward  at  a slight  sound,  and  an  unholy  fire 
kindled  in  the  public  eye,  and  those  next  the  gates  beat  at 
them  impatiently,  as  if  they  were  of  the  cannibal  species  and 
hungry. 

Again  the  hinges  creaked,  and  we  rushed.  Disorderly 
pressure  for  some  time  ensued  before  the  uncommercial  unit 
got  figured  into  the  front  row  of  the  sum.  It  was  strange  to 
see  so  much  heat  and  uproar  seething  about  one  poor  spare 
white-haired  old  man,  quiet  forevermore.  He  was  calm  of 
feature  and  undisfigured,  as  he  lay  on  his  back  — having  been 
struck  upon  the  hinder  part  of  the  head,  and  thrown  forward 
— and  something  like  a tear  or  two  had  started  from  the 
closed  eyes,  and  lay  wet  upon  the  face.  The  uncommercial 
interest,  sated  at  a glance,  directed  itself  upon  the  striving- 
crowd  on  either  side  and  behind  : wondering  whether  one 
might  have  guessed,  from  the  expression  of  those  faces  merely, 
what  kind  of  sight  they  were  looking  at.  The  differences  of 
expression  were  not  many.  There  was  a little  pity,  but  not 
much,  and  that  mostly  with  a selfish  touch  in  it  as  who 
would  say,  Shall  I,  poor  I,  look  like  that,  when  the  time 
comes  ? There  was  more  of  a secretly  brooding  contempla- 
tion and  curiosity,  as  That  man  I don’t  like,  and  have  the 


194 


THE  TJNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLEE. 


grudge  against;  would  sucli  be  his  appearance,  if  some  one  — 
not  to  mention  names  — by  any  chance  gave  him  an  ugly 
knock  ? There  was  a wolfish  stare  at  the  object,  in  which 
the  homicidal  white-lead  worker  shone  conspicuous.  And 
there  was  a much  more  general,  purposeless,  vacant  staring 
at  it  — like  looking  at  wax-work  without  a catalogue,  and  not 
knowing  what  to  make  of  it.  But  all  these  expressions  con- 
curred in  possessing  the  one  underlying  expression  of  looking 
at  something  that  could  not  return  a look.  The  uncommercial 
notice  had  established  this  as  very  remarkable,  when  a new 
pressure  all  at  once  coming  up  from  the  street  pinioned  him 
ignominiously,  and  hurried  him  into  the  arms  (now  sleeved 
again)  of  the  Custodian  smoking  at  his  door,  and  answering 
questions,  between  puffs,  with  a certain  placid  meritorious  air 
of  not  being  proud,  though  high  in  office.  And  mentioning 
pride,  it  may  be  observed,  by  the  way,  that  one  could  not  well 
help  investing  the  original  sole  occupant  of  the  front  row  with 
an  air  depreciatory  of  the  legitimate  attraction  of  the  poor 
old  man : while  the  two  in  the  second  row  seemed  to  exult  at 
his  superseded  popularity. 

Pacing  presently  round  the  garden  of  the  Tower  of  St. 
Jacques  de  la  Boucherie,  and  presently  again  in  front  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  I called  to  mind  a certain  desolate  open-air 
Morgue  that  I happened  to  light  upon  in  London,  one  day  in 
the  hard  winter  of  1861,  and  which  seemed  as  strange  to  me, 
at  the  time  of  seeing  it,  as  if  I had  found  it  in  China.  To- 
wards that  hour  of  a winter’s  afternoon  when  the  lamplighters 
are  beginning  to  light  the  lamps  in  the  streets  a little  before 
they  are  wanted,  because  the  darkness  thickens  fast  and  soon, 
I was  walking  in  from  the  country  on  the  northern  side  of  the 
Eegent’s  Park  — hard  frozen  and  deserted  — when  I saw  an 
empty  Hansom  cab  drive  up  to  the  lodge  at  Gloucester-gate, 
and  the  driver  with  great  agitation  call  to  the  man  there  : 
who  quickly  reached  a long  pole  from  a tree,  and,  deftly  col- 
lared by  the  driver,  jumped  to  the  step  of  his  little  seat,  and 
so  the  Hansom  rattled  out  at  the  gate,  galloping  over  the 
iron-bound  road.  I followed  running,  though  not  so  fast  but 
that  when  I came  to  the  right-hand  Canal  Bridge,  near  the 
cross-path  to  Chalk  Parm,  the  Hansom  was  stationary,  the 


LEAVING  THE  MORGUE. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


195 


horse  was  smoking  hot,  the  long  pole  was  idle  on  the  ground, 
and  the  driver  and  the  park-keeper  were  looking  over  the 
bridge  parapet.  Looking  over  too,  I saw,  lying  on  the 
towing-path  with  her  face  turned  up  towards  us,  a woman, 
dead  a day  or  two,  and  under  thirty,  as  I guessed,  poorly 
dressed  in  black.  The  feet  were  lightly  crossed  at  the  ankles, 
and  the  dark  hair,  all  pushed  back  from  the  face,  as  though 
that  had  been  the  last  action  of  her  desperate  hands,  streamed 
over  the  ground.  Dabbled  all  about  her,  were  the  water  and 
the  broken  ice  that  had  dropped  from  her  dress,  and  had 
splashed  as  she  was  got  out.  The  policeman  who  had  just 
got  her  out,  and  the  passing  costermonger  who  had  helped 
him,  were  standing  near  the  body;  the  latter  with  that  stare 
at  it  which  I have  likened  to  being  at  a wax-work  exhibition 
without  a catalogue ; the  former,  looking  over  his  stock,  with 
professional  stiffness  and  coolness,  in  the  direction  in  which 
the  bearers  he  had  sent  for  were  expected.  So  dreadfully 
forlorn,  so  dreadfully  sad,  so  dreadfully  mysterious,  this  spec- 
tacle of  our  dear  sister  here  departed!  A barge  came  up, 
breaking  the  floating  ice  and  the  silence,  and  a woman  steered 
it.  The  man  with  the  horse  that  towed  it,  cared  so  little  for 
the  body,  that  the  stumbling  hoofs  had  been  among  the  hair, 
and  the  tow-rope  had  caught  and  turned  the  head,  before  our 
cry  of  horror  took  him  to  the  bridle.  At  which  sound  the 
steering  woman  looked  up  at  us  on  the  bridge,  with  contempt 
unutterable,  and  then  looking  down  at  the  body  with  a similar 
expression  — as  if  it  were  made  in  another  likeness  from  her- 
self, had  been  informed  with  other  passions,  had  been  lost  by 
other  chances,  had  had  another  nature  dragged  down  to  per- 
dition— steered  a spurning  streak  of  mud  at  it,  and  passed  on. 

A better  experience,  but  also  of  the  Morgue  kind,  in  which 
chance  happily  made  me  useful  in  a slight  degree,  arose  to 
my  remembrance  as  I took  my  way  by  the  Boulevard  de  Se- 
bastopol to  the  brighter  scenes  of  Paris. 

The  thing  happened,  say  five  and  twenty  years  ago.  I was 
a modest  young  uncommercial  then,  and  timid  and  inexperi- 
enced. Many  suns  and  winds  have  browned  me  in  the  line, 
but  those  were  my  pale  days.  Having  newly  taken  the  lease 
of  a house  in  a certain  distinguished  metropolitan  parish  — a 


196 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


house  which  then  appeared  to  me  to  be  a frightfully  first-class 
Family  Mansion,  involving  awful  responsibilities  — I became 
the  prey  of  a Beadle.  I think  the  Beadle  must  have  seen 
me  going  in  or  coming  out,  and  must  have  observed  that  I 
tottered  under  the  weight  of  my  grandeur.  Or  he  may  have 
been  hiding  under  straw  when  I bought  my  first  horse  (in  the 
desirable  stable-yard  attached  to  the  first-class  Family  Man- 
sion), and  when  the  vender  remarked  to  me,  in  an  original 
manner,  on  bringing  him  for  approval,  taking  his  cloth  off  and 
smacking  him,  There,  Sir!  There^s  a Orse  ! ’’  And  when  I 
said  gallantly,  How  much  do  you  want  for  him  ? ’’  and  when 
the  vender  said,  ^^FTo  more  than  sixty  guineas,  from  you,’’  and 
when  I said  smartly,  Why  not  more  than  sixty  from  me  ? ” 
And  when  he  said  crushingly,  Because  upon  my  soul  and 
body  he’d  be  considered  cheap  at  seventy,  by  one  who  under- 
stood the  subject  — but  you  don’t.”  — I say,  the  Beadle  may 
have  been  in  hiding  under  straw,  when  this  disgrace  befell  me, 
or  he  may  have  noted  that  I was  too  raw  and  young  an  Atlas 
to  carry  the  first-class  Family  Mansion  in  a knowing  manner. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Beadle  did  what  Melancholy  did  to  the 
youth  in  Gray’s  Elegy  — he  marked  me  for  his  own.  And 
the  way  in  which  the  Beadle  did  it,  was  this : he  summoned 
me  as  a Juryman  on  his  Coroner’s  Inquests. 

In  my  first  feverish  alarm  I repaired  for  safety  and  for  suc- 
cor”— like  those  sagacious  Northern  shepherds  who,  having 
had  no  previous  reason  whatever  to  believe  in  young  Norval, 
very  prudently  did  not  originate  the  hazardous  idea  of  believ- 
ing in  him  — to  a deep  householder.  This  profound  man  in- 
formed me  that  the  Beadle  counted  on  my  buying  him  off;  on 
my  bribing  him  not  to  summon  me  ; and  that  if  I would 
attend  an  Inquest  with  a cheerful  countenance,  and  profess 
alacrity  in  that  branch  of  my  country’s  service,  the  Beadle 
would  be  disheartened,  and  would  give  up  the  game. 

I roused  my  energies,  and  the  next  time  the  wily  Beadle 
summoned  me,  I went.  The  Beadle  was  the  blankest  Beadle 
I have  ever  looked  on  when  I answered  to  my  name,  and  his 
discomfiture  gave  me  courage  to  go  through  with  it. 

We  were  impanelled  to  inquire  concerning  the  death  of  a 
very  little  mite  of  a child.  It  was  the  old  miserable  story. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  197 

Whether  the  mother  had  committed  the  minor  offence  of  con- 
cealing the  birth,  or  whether  she  had  committed  the  major 
offence  of  killing  the  child,  was  the  question  on  which  we  were 
wanted.  We  must  commit  her  on  one  of  the  two  issues. 

The  Inquest  came  off  in  the  parish  workhouse,  and  I have 
yet  a lively  impression  that  I was  unanimously  received  by 
my  brother  Jurymen  as  a brother  of  the  utmost  conceivable 
insignificance.  Also,  that  before  we  began,  a broker  who  had 
lately  cheated  me  fearfully  in  the  matter  of  a pair  of  card- 
tables,  was  for  the  utmost  rigor  of  the  law.  I remember  that 
we  sat  in  a sort  of  board- room,  on  such  very  large  square 
horse-hair  chairs  that  I wondered  what  race  of  Patagonians 
they  were  made  for ; and  further,  that  an  undertaker  gave  me 
his  card  when  we  were  in  the  full  moral  freshness  of  having 
just  been  sworn,  as  ^^an  inhabitant  that  was  newly  come  into 
the  parish,  and  was  likely  to  have  a young  family.’’  The  case 
was  then  stated  to  us  by  the  Coroner,  and  then  we  went  down- 
stairs— led  by  the  plotting  Beadle  — to  view  the  body.  From 
that  day  to  this,  the  poor  little  figure,  on  which  that  sounding 
legal  appellation  was  bestowed,  has  lain  in  the  same  place 
and  with  the  same  surroundings,  to  my  thinking.  In  a kind  of 
crypt  devoted  to  the  warehousing  of  the  parochial  coffins,  and 
in  the  midst  of  a perfect  Panorama  of  coffins  of  all  sizes,  it 
was  stretched  on  a box ; the  mother  had  put  it  in  her  box  — 
this  box  — almost  as  soon  as  it  was  born,  and  it  had  been 
presently  found  there.  It  had  been  opened,  and  neatly  sewn 
up,  and  regarded  from  that  point  of  view,  it  looked  like  a 
stuffed  creature.  It  rested  on  a clean  white  cloth,  with  a sur- 
gical instrument  or  so  at  hand,  and  regarded  from  that  point  of 
view,  it  looked  as  if  the  cloth  were  ^^laid,”  and  the  Giant 
were  coming  to  dinner.  J^here  was  nothing  repellent  about 
the  poor  piece  of  innocence,  and  it  demanded  a mere  form  of 
looking  at.  So,  we  looked  at  an  old  pauper  who  was  going 
about  among  the  coffins  with  a foot  rule,  as  if  he  were  a case 
of  Self-Measurement ; and  we  looked  at  one  another ; and  we 
said  the  place  was  well  whitewashed  anyhow ; and  then  our 
conversational  powers  as  a British  Jury  flagged,  and  the  fore- 
man said,  All  right,  gentlemen  ? Back  again,  Mr.  Beadle  ! ” 

The  miserable  young  creature  who  had  given  birth  to  this 


198 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


child  Avithin  a very  few  days,  and  who  had  cleaned  the  cold 
wet  door-steps  immediately  afterwards,  Avas  brought  before  us 
Avhen  Ave  resumed  our  horse-hair  chairs,  and  was  present  dur- 
ing the  proceedings.  She  had  a horse-hair  chair  herself, 
being  very  weak  and  ill;  and  I remember  hoAV  she  turned  to 
the  unsympathetic  nurse  who  attended  her,  and  who  might 
have  been  the  figure-head  of  a pauper-ship,  and  how  she  hid 
her  face  and  sobs  and  tears  upon  that  wooden  shoulder.  I 
remember,  too,  how  hard  her  mistress  was  upon  her  (she  was 
a servaiit-of-all-work),  and  Avith  what  a cruel  pertinacity  that 
piece  of  Virtue  spun  her  thread  of  evidence  double,  by  inter- 
twisting it  with  the  sternest  thread  of  construction.  Smitten 
hard  by  the  terrible  low  wail  from  the  utterly  friendless 
orphan  girl,  which  never  ceased  during  the  whole  inquiry,  I 
took  heart  to  ask  this  witness  a question  or  two,  which  hope- 
fully admitted  of  an  answer  that  might  give  a favorable  turn 
to  the  case.  She  made  the  turn  as  little  favorable  as  it  could 
be,  but  it  did  some  good,  and  the  Coroner,  who  was  nobly 
patient  and  humane  (he  was  the  late  Mr.  Wakley),  cast  a look 
of  strong  encouragement  in  my  direction.  Then,  we  had  the 
doctor  who  had  made  the  examination,  and  the  usual  tests  as 
to  whether  the  child  was  born  alive ; but  he  was  a timid 
muddle-headed  doctor,  and  got  confused  and  contradictory, 
and  Avouldn’t  say  this,  and  couldnT  ansAver  for  that,  and  the 
immaculate  broker  was  too  much  for  him,  and  our  side  slid 
back  again.  However,  I tried  again,  and  the  Coroner  backed 
me  again,  for  which  I ever  afterAvards  felt  grateful  to  him  as 
I do  now  to  his  memory ; and  Ave  got  another  favorable  turn, 
out  of  some  other  witness,  some  member  of  the  family  with  a 
strong  prepossession  against  the  sinner;  and  I think  Ave  had 
the  doctor  back  again ; and  I knoAV  that  the  Coroner  summed 
up  for  our  side,  and  that  I and  my  British  brothers  turned 
round  to  discuss  our  verdict,  and  get  ourseh^es  into  great  diffi- 
culties with  our  large  chairs  and  the  broker.  At  that  stage  of 
the  case  I tried  hard  again,  being  convinced  that  I had  cause 
for  it ; and  at  last  Ave  found  for  the  minor  offence  of  only  con- 
cealing the  birth  ; and  the  poor  desolate  creature,  Avho  had 
been  taken  out  during  our  deliberation,  being  brought  in  again 
to  be  told  of  the  verdict,  then  dropped  upon  her  knees  before 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


199 


US,  with  protestations  that  we  were  right  — protestations  among 
the  most  affecting  that  I have  ever  heard  in  my  life  — and 
was  carried  away  insensible. 

(In  private  conversation  after  this  was  all  over,  the  Coroner 
showed  me  his  reasons  as  a trained  surgeon,  for  perceiving  it 
to  be  impossible  that  the  child  could,  under  the  most  favor- 
able circumstances,  have  drawn  many  breaths,  in  the  very 
doubtful  case  of  its  having  ever  breathed  at  all ; this,  owing 
to  the  discovery  of  some  foreign  matter  in  the  windpipe,  quite 
irreconcilable  with  many  moments  of  life.) 

When  the  agonized  girl  had  made  those  final  protestations, 
I had  seen  her  face,  and  it  was  in  unison  with  her  distracted 
heart-broken  voice,  and  it  was  very  moving.  It  certainly  did 
not  impress  me  by  any  beauty  that  it  had,  and  if  I ever  see  it 
again  in  another  world  I shall  only  know  it  by  the  help  of 
some  new  sense  or  intelligence.  But  it  came  to  me  in  my 
sleep  that  night,  and  I selfishly  dismissed  it  in  the  most  effi- 
cient way  I could  think  of.  I caused  some  extra  care  to  be  taken 
of  her  in  the  prison,  and  counsel  to  be  retained  for  her  defence 
when  she  was  tried  at  the  Old  Bailey ; and  her  sentence  was 
lenient,  and  her  history  and  conduct  proved  that  it  was  right. 
In  doing  the  little  I did  for  her,  I remember  to  have  had  the 
kind  help  of  some  gentle-hearted  functionary  to  whom  I 
addressed  myself  — but  what  functionary  I have  long  forgot- 
ten — who  I suppose  was  officially  present  at  the  Inquest. 

I regard  this  as  a very  notable  uncommercial  experience, 
because  this  good  came  of  a Beadle.  And  to  the  best  of  my 
knowledge,  information,  and  belief,  it  is  the  only  good  that 
ever  did  come  of  a Beadle  since  the  first  Beadle  put  on  his 
cocked-hat. 


200 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XIX. 

BIRTHDAY  CELEBRATIONS. 

It  came  into  my  mind  that  I would  recall  in  these  notes  a 
few  of  the  many  hostelries  I have  rested  at  in  the  course  of 
my  journeys  ; and,  indeed,  I had  taken  up  my  pen  for  the  pur- 
pose, when  I was  baffled  by  an  accidental  circumstance.  It 
was  the  having  to  leave  off,  to  wish  the  owner  of  a certain 
bright  face  that  looked  in  at  my  door,  ^^many  happy  returns 
of  the  day.’’  Thereupon  a new  thought  came  into  my  mind, 
driving  its  predecessor  out,  and  I began  to  recall  — instead  of 
Inns  — the  birthdays  that  I have  put  up  at,  on  my  way  to 
this  present  sheet  of  paper. 

I can  very  well  remember  being  taken  out  to  visit  some 
peach-faced  creature  in  a blue  sash,  and  shoes  to  correspond, 
whose  life  I supposed  to  consist  entirely  of  birthdays.  Upon 
seed-cake,  sweet  wine,  and  shining  presents,  that  glorified 
young  person  seemed  to  me  to  be  exclusively  reared.  At  so 
early  a stage  of  my  travels  did  I assist  at  the  anniversary  of 
her  nativity  (and  become  enamoured  of  her),  that  I had  not 
yet  acquired  the  recondite  knowledge  that  a birthday  is  the 
common  property  of  all  who  are  born,  but  supposed  it  to  be  a 
special  gift  bestowed  by  the  favoring  Heavens  on  that  one 
distinguished  infant.  There  was  no  other  compan^q  and  we 
sat  in  a shady  bower  — under  a table,  as  my  better  (or  worse) 
knowledge  leads  me  to  believe  — and  were  regaled  with  sac- 
charine-substances and  liquids,  until  it  was  time  to  part.  A 
bitter  powder  was  administered  to  me  next  morning,  and  I 
was  wretched.  On  the  whole,  a pretty  accurate  foreshadow- 
ing of  my  more  mature  experiences  in  such  wise ! 

Then  came  the  time  when,  inseparable  from  one’s  own 
birthday,  was  a certain  sense  of  merit,  a consciousness  of  well- 
earned  distinction.  When  I regarded  my  birthday  as  a grace- 
ful achievement  of  my  own,  a monument  of  my  perseverance, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


201 


independence,  and  good  sense,  redounding  greatly  to  my  honor. 
This  was  at  about  the  period  when  Olympia  Squires  became 
involved  in  the  anniversary.  Olympia  was  most  beautiful 
(of  course),  and  I loved  her  to  that  degree,  that  I used  to  be 
obliged  to  get  out  of  my  little  bed  in  the  night,  expressly  to 
exclaim  to  Solitude,  0,  Olympia  Squires ! Visions  of  Olympia, 
clothed  entirely  in  sage-green,  from  which  I infer  a defectively 
educated  taste  on  the  part  of  her  respected  parents,  who  were 
necessarily  unacquainted  with  the  South  Kensington  Museum, 
still  arise  before  me.  Truth  is  sacred,  and  the  visions  are 
crowned  by  a shining  white  beaver  bonnet,  impossibly  sugges- 
tive of  a little  feminine  post-boy.  My  memory  presents  a 
birthday  when  Olympia  and  I were  taken  by  an  unfeeling 
relative  — some  cruel  uncle,  or  the  like  — to  a slow  torture 
called  an  Orrery.  The  terrible  instrument  was  set  up  at  the 
local  Theatre,  and  I had  expressed  a profane  wish  in  the 
morning  that  it  was  a Play : for  which  a serious  aunt  had 
probed  my  conscience  deep,  and  my  pocket  deeper,  by  reclaim- 
ing a bestowed  half-crown.  It  was  a venerable  and  a shabby 
Orrery,  at  least  one  thousand  stars  and  twenty-five  comets 
behind  the  age.  Nevertheless,  it  was  awful.  When  the  low- 
spirited  gentleman  with  a wand  said,  Ladies  and  gentlemen’’ 
(meaning  particularly  Olympia  and  me),  ‘^the  lights  are  about 
to  be  put  out,  but  there  is  not  the  slightest  cause  for  alarm,” 
it  was  very  alarming.  Then  the  planets  and  stars  began. 
Sometimes  they  wouldn’t  come  on,  sometimes  they  wouldn’t 
go  off,  sometimes  they  had  holes  in  them,  and  mostly  they 
didn’t  seem  to  be  good  likenesses.  All  this  time  the  gentle- 
man with  the  wand  was  going  on  in  the  dark  (tapping  away 
at  the  heavenly  bodies  between  whiles,  like  a wearisome  wood- 
pecker), about  a sphere  revolving  on  its  own  axis  eight  hun- 
dred and  ninety-seven  thousand  millions  of  times  — or  miles 
— in  two  hundred  and  sixty-three  thousand  five  hundred  and 
twenty-four  millions  of  something  elses,  until  I thought  if 
this  was  a birthday  it  were  better  never  to  have  been  born. 
Olympia,  also,  became  much  depressed,  and  we  both  slumbered 
and  woke  cross,  and  still  the  gentleman  was  going  on  in  the 
dark  — whether  up  in  the  stars,  or  down  on  the  stage,  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  make  put,  if  it  had  been  worth  trying  — 


202 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


ciphering  away  about  planes  of  orbits,  to  such  an  infamous 
extent  that  Olympia,  stung  to  madness,  actually  kicked  me. 
A pretty  birthday  spectacle,  when  the  lights  were  turned  up 
again,  and  all  the  schools  in  the  town  (including  the  National, 
who  had  come  in  for  nothing,  and  serve  them  right,  for  they 
were  always  throwing  stones)  were  discovered  with  exhausted 
countenances,  screwing  their  knuckles  into  their  eyes,  or 
clutching  their  heads  of  hair.  A pretty  birthday  speech  when 
Dr.  Sleek  of  the  City-Free  bobbed  up  his  powdered  head  in 
the  stage-box,  and  said  that  before  this  assembly  dispersed  he 
really  must  beg  to  express  his  entire  approval  of  a lecture  as 
improving,  as  informing,  as  devoid  of  anything  that  could  call 
a blush  into  the  cheek  of  youth,  as  any  it  had  ever  been  his 
lot  to  hear  delivered.  A pretty  birthday  altogether,  when 
Astronomy  couldn’t  leave  poor  Small  Olympia  Squires  and 
me  alone,  but  must  put  an  end  to  our  loves  ! For,  we  never 
got  over  it ; the  threadbare  Orrery  outwore  our  mutual  tender- 
ness ; the  man  with  the  wand  was  too  much  for  the  boy  with 
the  bow. 

When  shall  I disconnect  the  combined  smells  of  oranges, 
brown  paper,  and  straw,  from  those  other  birthdays  at  school, 
when  the  coming  hamper  casts  its  shadow  before,  and  when  a 
week  of  social  harmony  — shall  I add  of  admiring  and  affec- 
tionate popularity  — led  up  to  that  Institution  ? What  noble 
sentiments  were  expressed  to  me  in  the  days  before  the  hamper, 
what  vows  of  friendship  were  sworn  to  me,  what  exceedingly 
old  knives  were  given  me,  what  generous  avowals  of  having 
been  in  the  wrong  emanated  from  else  obstinate  spirits  once 
enrolled  among  my  enemies  ! The  birthday  of  the  potted 
game  and  guava  jelly,  is  still  made  special  to  me  by  the  noble 
conduct  of  Bully  Globson.  Letters  from  home  had  mysteri- 
ously inquired  whether  I should  be  much  surprised  and  dis- 
appointed if  among  the  treasures  in  the  coming  hamper  I 
discovered  potted  game,  and  guava  jelly  from  the  Western 
Indies.  I had  mentioned  those  hints  in  confidence  to  a few 
friends,  and  had  promised  to  give  away,  as  I now  see  reason 
to  believe,  a handsome  covey  of  partridges  potted,  and  about 
a hundred  weight  of  guava  jelly.  It  was  now  that  Globson, 
Bully  no  more,  sought  me  out  in  the  playground.  He  was  a 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


203 


big  fat  boy,  with  a big  fat  head  and  a big  fat  fist,  and  at  the 
beginning  of  that  Half  had  raised  such  a bump  on  my  fore- 
head that  I couldn’t  get  my  hat  of  state  on,  to  go  to  church. 
He  said  that  after  an  interval  of  cool  reflection  (four  months) 
he  now  felt  this  blow  to  have  been  an  error  of  judgment,  and 
that  he  wished  to  apologize  for  the  same.  Not  only  that,  but 
holding  down  his  big  head  between  his  two  big  hands  in  order 
that  I might  reach  it  conveniently,  he  requested  me,  as  an  act 
of  justice  which  would  appease  his  awakened  conscience,  to 
raise  a retributive  bump  upon  it,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses. 
This  handsome  proposal  I modestly  declined,  and  he  then 
embraced  me,  and  we  walked  away  conversing.  We  conversed 
respecting  the  West  India  Islands,  and,  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge  he  asked  me  with  much  interest  whether  in  the 
course  of  my  reading  I had  met  with  any  reliable  description 
of  the  mode  of  manufacturing  guava  jelly ; or  whether  I had 
ever  happened  to  taste  that  conserve,  which  he  had  been  given 
to  understand  was  of  rare  excellence. 

Seventeen,  eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty ; and  then  with  the 
waning  months  came  an  ever  augmenting  sense  of  the  dignity 
of  twenty-one.  Heaven  knows  I had  nothing  to  come  into,” 
save  the  bare  birthday,  and  yet  I esteemed  it  as  a great 
possession.  I now  and  then  paved  the  way  to  my  state  of  • 
dignity,  by  beginning  a proposition  with  the  casual  words, 
say  that  a man  of  twenty-one,”  or  by  the  incidental  assump- 
tion of  a fact  that  could  not  sanely  be  disputed,  as,  for  when 
a fellow  comes  to  be  a man  of  twenty-one.”  I gave  a party 
on  the  occasion.  She  was  there.  It  is  unnecessary  to  name 
Her,  more  particularly ; she  was  older  than  I,  and  had  per- 
vaded every  chink  and  crevice  of  my  mind  for  three  or  four 
years.  I had  held  volumes  of  Imaginary  Conversations  with 
her  mother  on  the  subject  of  our  union,  and  I had  written 
letters  more  in  number  than  Horace  Walpole’s,  to  that  discreet 
woman,  soliciting  her  daughter’s  hand  in  marriage.  I had 
never  had  the  remotest  intention  of  sending  any  of  those 
letters ; but  to  write  them,  and  after  a few  days  tear  them 
up,  had  been  a sublime  occupation.  Sometimes  I had  begun 
“Honored  Madam.  I think  that  a lady  gifted  with  those 
powers  of  observation  which  I know  you  to  possess,  and 


204 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


endowed  with  those  womanly  sympathies  with  the  young  and 
ardent  which  it  were  more  than  heresy  to  doubt,  can  scarcely 
have  failed  to  discover  that  I love  your  adorable  daughter, 
deeply,  devotedly/^  In  less  buoyant  states  of  mind  I had 
begun,  ^^Bear  with  me.  Dear  Madam,  bear  with  a daring 
wretch  who  is  about  to  make  a surprising  confession  to  you, 
wholly  unanticipated  by  yourself,  and  which  he  beseeches 
you  to  commit  to  the  flames  as  soon  as  you  have  become 
aware  to  what  a towering  height  his  mad  ambition  soars.’’ 
At  other  times — periods  of  profound  mental  depression,  when 
She  had  gone  out  to  balls  where  I was  not  — the  draft  took  the 
affecting  form  of  a paper  to  be  left  on  my  table  after  my 
departure  to  the  confines  of  the  globe.  As  thus : For  Mrs. 
Onowenever,  these  lines  when  the  hand  that  traces  them  shall 
be  far  away.  I could  not  bear  the  daily  torture  of  hopelessly 
loving  the  dear  one  whom  I will  not  name.  Broiling  on  the 
coast  of  Africa,  or  congealing  on  the  shores  of  Greenland,  I 
am  far  far  better  there  than  here.”  (In  this  sentiment  my 
cooler  judgment  perceives  that  the  family  of  the  beloved 
object  would  have  most  completely  concurred.)  ‘^If  I ever 
emerge  from  obscurity,  and  my  name  is  ever  heralded  by 
Fame,  it  will  be  for  her  dear  sake.  If  I ever  amass  Gold,  it 
•will  be  to  pour  it  at  her  feet.  Should  I on  the  other  hand 
become  the  prey  of  Kavens” — I doubt  if  I ever  quite 
made  up  my  mind  what  was  to  be  done  in  that  affecting  case ; 
I tried  then  it  is  better  so  ; ” but  not  feeling  convinced  that 
it  would  be  better  so,  I vacillated  between  leaving  all  else 
blank,  which  looked  expressive  and  bleak,  or  winding  up  with 

Farewell ! ” 

This  fictitious  correspondence  of  mine  is  to  blame  for  the 
foregoing  digression.  I was  about  to  pursue  the  statement 
that  on  my  twenty-first  birthday  I gave  a party,  and  She  was 
there.  It  was  a beautiful  party.  There  was  not  a single 
animate  or  inanimate  object  connected  with  it  (except  the 
company  and  myself)  that  I had  ever  seen  before.  Every- 
thing was  hired,  and  the  mercenaries  in  attendance  were  pro- 
found strangers  to  me.  Behind  a door,  in  the  crumby  part 
of  the  night  when  wineglasses  were  to  be  found  in  unex- 
pected spots,  I spoke  to  Her  — spoke  out  to  Her,  What 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


205 


passed,  I cannot  as  a man  of  honor  reveal.  She  was  all 
angelical  gentleness,  but  a word  was  mentioned  — a short  and 
dreadful  word  of  three  letters,  beginning  with  a B — which, 
as  I remarked  at  the  moment,  scorched  my  brain.’’  She 
went  away  soon  afterwards,  and  when  the  hollow  throng 
(though  to  be  sure  it  was  no  fault  of  theirs)  dispersed,  I issued 
forth,  with  a dissipated  scorner,  and,  as  I mentioned  expressly 
to  him,  sought  oblivion.”  It  was  found,  with  a dreadful 
headache  in  it,  but  it  didn’t  last ; for,  in  the  shaming  light  of 
next  day’s  noon,  I raised  my  heavy  head  in  bed,  looking  back 
to  the  birthdays  behind  me,  and  tracking  the  circle  by  which 
I had  got  round,  after  all,  to  the  bitter  powder  and  the 
wretchedness  again. 

This  reactionary  powder  (taken  so  largely  by  the  human 
race  that  I am  inclined  to  regard  it  as  the  Universal  Medicine 
once  sought  for  in  Laboratories)  is  capable  of  being  made 
up  in  another  form  for  birthday  use.  Anybody’s  long-lost 
brother  will  do  ill  to  turn  up  on  a birthday.  If  I had  a long- 
lost  brother  I should  know  beforehand  that  he  would  prove  a 
tremendous  fraternal  failure  if  he  appointed  to  rush  into  my 
arms  on  my  birthday.  The  first  Magic  Lantern  I ever  saw, 
was  secretly  and  elaborately  planned  to  be  the  great  effect  of 
a very  juvenile  birthday;  but  it  wouldn’t  act,  and  its  images 
were  dim.  My  experience  of  adult  birthday  Magic  Lanterns 
may  possibly  have  been  unfortui;|Late,  but  has  certainly  been 
similar.  I have  an  illustrative  birthday  in  my  eye  : a birth- 
day of  my  friend  Flipfield,  who^e  -birthdays  had  long  been 
remarkable  as  social  successes.  There  had  been  nothing  set 
or  formal  about  them ; Flipfield  having  been  accustomed 
merely  to  say,  two  or  three  days  before,  Don’t  forget  to 
come  and  dine,  old  boy,  according  to  custom  ; ” — I don’t  know 
what  he  said  to  the  ladies  he  invited,  but  I may  safely  assume 
it  not  to  have  been  ^^old  girl.”  Those  were  delightful  gather- 
ings, and  were  enjoyed  by  all  participators.  In  an  evil  hour, 
a long-lost  brother  of  Flipfield’s  came  to  light  in  foreign 
parts.  Where  he  had  been  hidden,  or  what  he  had  been 
doing,  I don’t  know,  for  Flipfield  vaguely  informed  me  that 
he  had  turned  up  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges  ” — speaking 
of  him  as  if  he  had  been  washed  ashore.  The  Long-lost  was 


206 


THE  VNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


coming  home,  and  Flipfield  made  an  unfortunate  calculation, 
based  on  the  well-known  regularity  of  the  P.  and  0.  Steamers, 
that  matters  might  be  so  contrived  as  that  the  Long-lost 
should  appear  in  the  nick  of  time  on  his  (Flipfield’s)  birth- 
day. Delicacy  commanded  that  I should  repress  the  gloomy 
anticipations  with  which  my  soul  became  fraught  when  I 
heard  of  this  plan.  The  fatal  day  arrived,  and  we  assembled 
in  force.  Mrs.  Flipfield  senior  formed  an  interesting  feature 
in  the  group,  with  a blue-veined  miniature  of  the  late  Mr. 
Flipfield  round  her  neck,  in  an  oval,  resembling  a tart  from 
the  pastrycook’s  : his  hair  powdered,  and  the  bright  buttons 
on  his  coat,  evidently  very  like.  She  was  accompanied  by 
Miss  Flipfield,  the  eldest  of  her  numerous  family,  who  held 
her  pocket-handkerchief  to  her  bosom  in  a majestic  manner, 
and  spoke  to  all  of  us  (none  of  us  had  ever  seen  her  before), 
in  pious  and  condoning  tones,  of  all  the  quarrels  that  had 
taken  place  in  the  family,  from  her  infancy,  which  must  have 
been  a long  time  ago  — down  to  that  hour.  The  Long-lost 
did  not  appear.  Dinner,  half  an  hour  later  than  usual,  was 
announced,  and  still  no  Long-lost.  We  sat  down  to  table. 
The  knife  and  fork  of  the  Long-lost  made  a vacuum  in  Nature, 
and  when  the  champagne  came  round  for  the  first  time, 
Flipfield  gave  him  up  for  the  day,  and  had  them  removed. 
It  was  then  that  the  Long-lost  gained  the  height  of  his  popu- 
larity with  the  company  ; for  my  own  part,  I felt  convinced 
that  I loved  him  dearly.  Flipfield’s  dinners  are  perfect,  and 
he  is  the  easiest  and  best  of  entertainers.  Dinner  went  on 
brilliantly,  and  the  more  the  Long-lost  didn’t  come,  the  more 
comfortable  we  grew,  and  the  more  highly  we  thought  of 
him.  Flipfield’s  own  man  (who  has  a regard  for  me)  was  in 
the  act  of  struggling  with  an  ignorant  stipendiary,  to  wrest 
from  him  the  wooden  leg  of  a Guinea-fowl  which  he  was 
pressing  on  my  acceptance,  and  to  substitute  a slice  of  the 
breast,  when  a ringing  at  the  door-bell  suspended  the  strife. 
I looked  round  me,  and  perceived  the  sudden  pallor  which  I 
knew  my  own  visage  revealed,  refiected  in  the  faces  of  the 
company.  Flipfield  hurriedly  excused  himself,  went  out,  was 
absent  for  about  a minute  or  two,  and  then  re-entered  with  the 
Long-lost. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


207 


I beg  to  say  distinctly  that  if  the  stranger  had  brought 
Mont  Blanc  with  him,  or  had  come  attended  by  a retinue  of 
eternal  snows,  he  could  not  have  chilled  the  circle  to  the 
marrow  in  a more  efficient  manner.  Embodied  failure  sat 
enthroned  upon  the  Long-lost’s  brow,  and  pervaded  him  to  his 
Long-lost  boots.  In  vain  Mrs.  Elipfield  senior,  opening  her 
arms,  exclaimed,  My  Tom  ! ” and  pressed  his  nose  against 
the  counterfeit  presentment  of  his  other  parent.  In  vain  Miss 
Elipfield,  in  the  first  transports  of  this  re-union,  showed  him 
a dint  upon  her  maidenly  cheek,  and  asked  him  if  he  remem- 
bered when  he  did  that  with  the  bellows  ? We,  the  by- 
standers, were  overcome,  but  overcome  by  the  palpable, 
undisguisable,  utter,  and  total  break-down  of  the  Long-lost. 
Nothing  he  could  have  done  would  have  set  him  right  with 
us  but  his  instant  return  to  the  Ganges.  In  the  very  same 
moments  it  became  established  that  the  feeling  was  reciprocal, 
and  that  the  Long-lost  detested  us.  When  a friend  of  the 
family  (not  myself,  upon  my  honor),  wishing  to  set  things 
going  again,  asked  him,  while  he  partook  of  soup  — asked 
him  with  an  amiability  of  intention  beyond  all  praise,  but 
with  a weakness  of  execution  open  to  defeat  — what  kind  of 
river  he  considered  the  Ganges,  the  Long-lost,  scowling  at 
the  friend  of  the  family  over  his  spoon,  as  one  of  an  abhorrent 
race,  replied,  Why  a river  of  water,  I suppose,”  and  spooned 
his  soup  into  himself  with  a malignancy  of  hand  and  eye  that 
blighted  the  amiable  questioner.  Not  an  opinion  could  be 
elicited  from  the  Long-lost,  in  unison  with  the  sentiments 
of  any  individual  present.  He  contradicted  Elipfield  dead, 
before  he  had  eaten  his  salmon.  He  had  no  idea  — or  affected 
to  have  no  idea  — that  it  was  his  brother’s  birthday,  and  on 
the  communication  of  that  interesting  fact  to  him,  merely 
wanted  to  made  him  out  four  years  older  than  he  was.  He 
was  an  antipathetical  being,  with  a peculiar  power  and  gift 
of  treading  on  everybody’s  tenderest  place.  They  talk  in 
America  of  a man’s  Platform.”  I should  describe  the  Plat- 
form of  the  Long-lost  as  a Platform  composed  of  other 
people’s  corns,  on  which  he  had  stumped  his  way,  with  all 
his  might  and  main,  to  his  present  position.  It  is  needless 
to  add  that  Elipfield’s  great  birthday  went  by  the  board,  and 


208 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


that  he  was  a wreck  when  I pretended  at  parting  to  wish  him 
many  happy  returns  of  it. 

There  is  another  class  of  birthdays  at  which  I have  so 
frequently  assisted,  that  I may  assume  such  birthdays  to  be 
pretty  well  known  to  the  human  race.  My  friend  Mayday’s 
birthday  is  an  example.  The  guests  have  no  knowledge  of 
one  another  except  on  that  one  day  in  the  year,  and  are 
annually  terrified  for  a week  by  the  prospect  of  meeting  one 
another  again.  There  is  a fiction  among  us  that  we  have 
uncommon  reasons  for  being  particularly  lively  and  spirited 
on  the  occasion,  whereas  deep  despondency  is  no  phrase  for 
the  expression  of  our  feelings.  But  the  wonderful  feature  of 
the  case  is,  that  we  are  in  tacit  accordance  to  avoid  the  sub- 
ject— to  keep  it  as  far  off  as  possible,  as  long  as  possible  — 
and  to  talk  about  anything  else,  rather  than  the  joyful  event. 
I may  even  go  so  far  as  to  assert  that  there  is  a dumb  compact 
among  us  that  we  will  pretend  that  it  is  not  Mayday’s  birth- 
day. A mysterious  and  gloomy  Being,  who  is  said  to  have 
gone  to  school  with  Mayday,  and  who  is  so  lank  and  lean 
that  he  seriously  impugns  the  Dietary  of  the  establishment  at 
which  they  were  jointly  educated,  always  leads  us,  as  I may 
say,  to  the  block,  by  laying  his  grisly  hand  on  a decanter 
and  begging  us  to  fill  our  glasses.  The  devices  and  pretences 
that  I have  seen  put  in  practice  to  defer  the  fatal  moment, 
and  to  interpose  between  this  man  and  his  purpose,  are 
innumerable.  I have  known  desperate  guests,  when  they 
saw  the  grisly  hand  approaching  the  decanter,  wildly  to  begin, 
without  any  antecedent  whatsoever,  That  reminds  me  ” — 
and  to  plunge  into  long  stories.  When  at  last  the  hand  and 
the  decanter  come  together,  a shudder,  a palpable,  perceptible 
shudder,  goes  round  the  table.  We  receive  the  reminder  that 
it  is  Mayday’s  birthday,  as  if  it  were  the  anniversary  of  some 
profound  disgrace  he  had  undergone,  and  we  sought  to  com- 
fort him.  And  when  we  have  drunk  Mayday’s  health,  and 
wished  him  many  happy  returns,  we  are  seized  for  some 
moments  with  a ghastly  blitheness,  an  unnatural  levity,  as  if 
we  were  in  the  first  fiushed  reaction  of  having  undergone  a 
surgical  operation. 

Birthdays  of  this  species  have  a public  as  well  as  a private 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


209 


phase.  My  boyhood’s  home/’  Dullborough,  presents  a case 
in  point.  An  Immortal  Somebody  was  wanted  in  Dull- 
borough,  to  dimple  for  a day  the  stagnant  face  of  the  waters  ; 
he  was  rather  wanted  by  Dullborough  generally,  and  much 
wanted  by  the  principal  hotel-keeper.  The  County  history 
was  looked  up  for  a locally  Immortal  Somebody,  but  the 
registered  Dullborough  worthies  were  all  ISTobodies.  In  this 
state  of  things,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  record  that  Dull- 
borough did  what  every  man  does  when  he  wants  to  write 
a book  or  deliver  a lecture,  and  is  provided  with  all  the 
materials  except  a subject.  It  fell  back  upon  Shakespeare. 

No  sooner  was  it  resolved  to  celebrate  Shakespeare’s  birth- 
day in  Dullborough,  than  the  popularity  of  the  immortal  bard 
became  surprising.  You  might  have  supposed  the  first  edi- 
tion of  his  works  to  have  been  published  last  week,  and 
enthusiastic  Dullborough  to  have  got  half  through  them.  (I 
doubt,  by  the  way,  whether  it  had  ever  done  half  that,  but 
this  is  a private  opinion.)  A young  gentleman  with  a sonnet, 
the  retention  of  which  for  two  years  had  enfeebled  his  mind 
and  undermined  his  knees,  got  the  sonnet  into  the  Dullborough 
Warden,  and  gained  flesh.  Portraits  of  Shakespeare  broke 
out  in  the  bookshop  windows,  and  our  principal  artist  painted 
a large  original  portrait  in  oils  for  the  decoration  of  the 
dining-room.  It  was  not  in  the  least  like  any  of  the  other 
portraits,  and  was  exceedingly  admired,  the  head  being  much 
swollen.  At  the  Institution,  the  Debating  Society  discussed 
the  new  question,  was  there  sufficient  ground  for  supposing 
that  the  Immortal  Shakespeare  ever  stole  deer  ? This  was 
indignantly  decided  by  an  overwhelming  majority  in  the 
negative ; indeed,  there  was  but  one  vote  on  the  Poaching 
side,  and  that  was  the  vote  of  the  orator  who  had  undertaken 
to  advocate  it,  and  who  became  quite  an  obnoxious  character 
— particularly  to  the  Dullborough  roughs,”  who  were  about 
as  well  informed  on  the  matter  as  most  other  people.  Dis- 
tinguished speakers  were  invited  down,  and  very  nearly  came 
(but  not  quite).  Subscriptions  were  opened,  and  committees 
sat,  and  it  would  have  been  far  from  a popular  measure  in 
the  height  of  the  excitement,  to  have  told  Dullborough  that 
it  wasn’t  Stratford-upon-Avon.  Yet,  after  all  these  prepara- 


210 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLER. 


tions,  when  the  great  festivity  took  place,  and  the  portrait 
elevated  aloft,  surveyed  the  company  as  if  it  were  in  danger 
of  springing  a mine  of  intellect  and  blowing  itself  up,  it  did 
undoubtedly  happen,  according  to  the  inscrutable  mysteries  of 
things,  that  nobody  could  be  induced,  not  to  say  to  touch  upon 
Shakespeare,  but  to  come  within  a mile  of  him,  until  the 
crack  speaker  of  Dullborough  rose  to  propose  the  immortal 
memory.  Which  he  did  with  the  perplexing  and  astonishing 
result  that  before  he  had  repeated  the  great  name  half  a dozen 
times,  or  had  been  upon  his  legs  as  many  minutes,  he  was 
assailed  with  a general  shout  of  Question.^’ 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


211 


XX. 

BOUND  FOR  THE  GREAT  SALT  LAKE. 

Behold  me  on  my  way  to  an  Emigrant  Ship,  on  a hot 
morning  early  in  June.  My  road  lies  through  that  part  of 
London  generally  known  to  the  initiated  as  “ Down  by  the 
Docks.’’  Down  by  the  Docks,  is  home  to  a good  many  people 
— to  too  many,  if  I may  judge  from  the  overflow  of  local 
population  in  the  streets — but  my  nose  insinuates  that  the 
number  to  whom  it  is  Sweet  Home  might  be  easily  counted. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  is  a region  I would  choose  as  my  point 
of  embarkation  aboard  ship  if  I were  an  emigrant.  It  would 
present  my  intention  to  me  in  such  a sensible  light ; it  would 
show  me  so  many  things  to  be  run  away  from. 

Down  by  the  Docks,  they  eat  the  largest  oysters  and  scatter 
the  roughest  oyster  shells,  known  to  the  descendants  of  Saint 
George  and  the  Dragon.  Down  by  the  Docks,  they  consume 
the  slimiest  of  shell-fish,  which  seem  to  have  been  scraped  off 
the  copper  bottoms  of  ships.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  vege- 
tables at  greengrocers’  doors  acquire  a saline  and  a scaly 
look,  as  if  they  had  been  crossed  with  fish  and  seaweed. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  they  board  seamen  ” at  the  eating- 
houses,  the  public-houses,  the  slop-shops,  the  coffee-shops, 
the  tally-shops,  all  kinds  of  shops  mentionable  and  unmen- 
tionable — board  them,  as  it  were,  in  the  piratical  sense, 
making  them  bleed  terribly,  and  giving  no  quarter.  Down 
by  the  Docks,  the  seamen  roam  in  mid-street  and  mid-day, 
their  pockets  inside  out,  and  their  heads  no  better.  Down  by 
the  Docks,  the  daughters  of  wave-ruling  Britannia  also  rove, 
clad  in  silken  attire,  with  uncovered  tresses  streaming  in  the 
breeze,  bandanna  kerchiefs  floating  from  their  shoulders,  and 
crinoline  not  wanting.  Down  by  the  Docks,  you  may  hear 
the  Incomparable  Joe  Jackson  sing  the  Standard  of  England, 
with  a hornpipe,  any  night ; or  any  day  may  see  at  the  wax- 


212 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


work,  for  a penny  and  no  waiting,  him  as  killed  the  police- 
man at  Acton  and  suffered  for  it.  Down  by  the  Docks,  you 
may  buy  polonies,  saveloys,  and  sausage  preparations  various, 
if  you  are  not  particular  what  they  are  made  of  besides 
seasoning.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  children  of  Israel  creep 
into  any  gloomy  cribs  and  entries  they  can  hire,  and  hang 
slops  there  — pewter  watches,  sou’-wester  hats,  waterproof 
overalls  — firtht  rate  articleth,  Thjack.’’  Down  by  the  Docks, 
such  dealers  exhibiting  on  a frame  a complete  nautical  suit 
without  the  refinement  of  a waxen  visage  in  the  hat,  present 
the  imaginary  wearer  as  drooping  at  the  yard-arm,  with  his 
seafaring  and  earthfaring  troubles  over.  Down  by  the  Docks, 
the  placards  in  the  shops  apostrophize  the  customer,  knowing 
him  familiarly  beforehand,  as  Look  here.  Jack  ! ’’  Here’s 
your  sort,  my  lad  ! ” Try  our  sea-going  mixed,  at  two  and 
nine  ! ” The  right  kit  for  the  British  tar  ! ” Ship  ahoy  ! ” 
Splice  the  main-brace,  brother!”  Come,  cheer  up,  my 
lads.  We’ve  the  best  liquors  here.  And  you’ll  find  something 
new  In  our  wonderful  Beer ! ” Down  by  the  Docks,  the 
pawnbroker  lends  money  on  Union-Jack  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
on  watches  with  little  ships  pitching  fore  and  aft  on  the  dial, 
on  telescopes,  nautical  instruments  in  cases,  and  such-like. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  the  apothecary  sets  up  in  business  on 
the  wretchedest  scale  — chiefly  on  lint  and  plaster  for  the 
strapping  of  wounds  — and  with  no  bright  bottles,  and  with 
no  little  drawers.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  shabby  under- 
taker’s shop  will  bury  you  for  next  to  nothing,  after  the 
Malay  or  Chinaman  has  stabbed  you  for  nothing  at  all;  so 
you  can  hardly  hope  to  make  a cheaper  end.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  anybody  drunk  will  quarrel  with  anybody  drunk  or 
sober,  and  everybody  else  will  have  a hand  in  it,  and  on  the 
shortest  notice  you  may  revolve  in  a whirlpool  of  red  shirts, 
shaggy  beards,  wild  heads  of  hair,  bare  tattooed  arms,  Bri- 
tannia’s daughters,  malice,  mud,  maundering,  and  madness. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  scraping  fiddles  go  in  the  public-houses 
all  day  long,  and,  shrill  above  their  din  and  all  the  din,  rises 
the  screeching  of  innumerable  parrots  brought  from  foreign 
parts,  who  appear  to  be  very  much  astonished  by  what  they 
find  on  these  native  shores  of  ours.  Possibly  the  parrots 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


213 


don’t  know,  possibly  they  do,  that  Down  by  the  Docks  is  the 
road  to  the  Pacific  Ocean,  with  its  lovely  islands,  where  the 
savage  girls  plait  flowers,  and  the  savage  boys  carve  cocoa- 
nut  shells,  and  the  grim  blind  idols  muse  in  their  shady 
groves  to  exactly  the  same  purpose  as  the  priests  and  chiefs. 
And  possibly  the  parrots  don’t  know,  possibly  they  do,  that 
the  noble  savage  is  a wearisome  impostor  wherever  he  is,  and 
has  five  hundred  thousand  volumes  of  indifferent  rhyme,  and 
no  reason,  to  answer  for. 

Shadwell  church ! Pleasant  whispers  of  there  being  a 
fresher  air  down  the  river  than  down  by  the  Docks,  go  pur- 
suing one  another,  playfully,  in  and  out  of  the  openings  in  its 
spire.  Gigantic  in  the  basin  just  beyond  the  church,  looms 
my  Emigrant  Ship : her  name,  the  Amazon.  Her  figure- 
head is  not  c^isfigured  as  those  beauteous  founders  of  the  race 
of  strong-minded  women  are  fabled  to  have  been,  for  the 
convenience  of  drawing  the  bow ; but  I sympathize  with  the 
carver : — 

A flattering  carver  who  made  it  liis  care 

To  carve  busts  as  they  ought  to  be  — not  as  they  were. 

My  Emigrant  Ship  lies  broadside-on  to  the  wharf.  Two  great 
gangways  made  of  spars  and  planks  connect  her  with  the 
wharf  ; and  up  and  down  these  gangways,  perpetually  crowd- 
ing to  and  fro  and  in  and  out,  like  ants,  are  the  Emigrants 
who  are  going  to  sail  in  my  Emigrant  Ship.  Some  with 
cabbages,  some  with  loaves  of  bread,  some  with  cheese  and 
butter,  some  with  milk  and  beer,  some  with  boxes,  beds  and 
bundles,  some  with  babies  — nearly  all  with  children  — nearly 
all  with  brand-new  tin  cans  for  their  daily  allowance  of  water, 
uncomfortably  suggestive  of  a tin  flavor  in  the  drink.  To 
and  fro,  up  and  down,  aboard  and  ashore,  swarming  here  and 
there  and  everywhere,  my  Emigrants.  And  still  as  the  Dock- 
Gate  swings  upon  its  hinges,  cabs  appear,  and  carts  appear, 
and  vans  appear,  bringing  more  of  my  Emigrants,  with  more 
cabbages,  more  loaves,  more  cheese  and  butter,  more  milk 
and  beer,  more  boxes,  beds  and  bundles,  more  tin  cans,  and 
on  those  shipping  investments  accumulated  compound  interest 
of  children. 


214 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


I go  aboard  my  Emigrant  Ship.  I go  first  to  the  great 
cabin,  and  find  it  in  the  usual  condition  of  a Cabin  at  that 
pass.  Perspiring  landsmen,  with  loose  papers,  and  with  pens 
and  inkstands,  pervade  it ; and  the  general  appearance  of 
things  is  as  if  the  late  Mr.  Amazonas  funeral  had  just  come 
home  from  the  cemetery,  and  the  disconsolate  Mrs.  Amazon’s 
trustees  found  the  affairs  in  great  disorder,  and  were  looking 
high  and  low  for  the  will.  I go  out  on  the  poop-deck,  for  air, 
and  surveying  the  emigrants  on  the  deck  below  (indeed  they 
are  crowded  all  about  me,  up  there  too),  find  more  pens  and 
inkstands  in  action,  and  more  papers,  and  interminable  com- 
plication respecting  accounts  with  individuals  for  tin  cans  and 
what  not.  But  nobody  is  in  an  ill-temper,  nobody  is  the 
worse  for  drink,  nobody  swears  an  oath  or  uses  a coarse  word, 
nobody  appears  depressed,  nobody  is  weeping,  and  down,  upon 
the  deck  in  every  corner  where  it  is  possible  to  find  a few 
square  feet  to  kneel,  crouch,  or  lie  in,  people,  in  every 
unsuitable  attitude  for  writing,  are  writing  letters. 

Now,  I have  seen  emigrant  ships  before  this  day  in  June. 
And  these  people  are  so  strikingly  different  from  all  other 
people  in  like  circumstances  whom  I have  ever  seen,  that  I 
wonder  aloud,  What  would  a stranger  suppose  these 
emigrants  to  be  ! ” 

The  vigilant  bright  face  of  the  weather-browned  captain  of 
the  Amazon  is  at  my  shoulder,  and  he  says,  What,  indeed  ! 
The  most  of  these  came  aboard  yesterday  evening.  They 
came  from  various  parts  of  England  in  small  parties  that  had 
never  seen  one  another  before.  Yet  they  had  not  been  a 
couple  of  hours  on  board,  when  they  established  their  own 
police,  made  their  own  regulations,  and  set  their  own  watches 
at  all  the  hatchways.  Before  nine  o’clock,  the  ship  was 
as  orderly  and  as  quiet  as  a man-of-war.” 

I looked  about  me  again,  and  saw  the  letter-writing  going 
on  with  the  most  curious  composure.  Perfectly  abstracted  in 
the  midst  of  the  crowd ; while  great  casks  were  swinging 
aloft,  and  being  lowered  into  the  hold ; while  hot  agents  were 
hurrying  up  and  down,  adjusting  the  interminable  accounts  ; 
while  two  hundred  strangers  were  searching  everywhere  for 
two  hundred  other  strangers,  and  were  asking  questions 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


215 


about  them  of  two  hundred  more ; while  the  children  played 
up  and  down  all  the  steps,  and  in  and  out  among  all  the 
people’s  legs,  and  were  beheld,  to  the  general  dismay,  top- 
pling over  all  the  dangerous  places ; the  letter-writers  wrote 
on  calmly.  On  the  starboard  side  of  the  ship,  a grizzled  man 
dictated  a long  letter  to  another  grizzled  man  in  an  immense 
fur  cap : which  letter  was  of  so  profound  a quality,  that  it 
became  necessary  for  the  amanuensis  at  intervals  to  take  oft* 
his  fur  cap  in  both  his  hands,  for  the  ventilation  of  his  brain, 
and  stare  at  him  who  dictated,  as  a man  of  many  mysteries 
who  was  worth  looking  at.  On  the  larboard  side,  a woman 
had  covered  a belaying-pin  with  a white  cloth  to  make  a neat 
desk  of  it,  and  was  sitting  on  a little  box,  writing  with  the 
deliberation  of  a bookkeeper.  Down  upon  her  breast  on  tlie 
planks  of  the  deck  at  this  woman’s  feet,  with  her  head  diving 
in  under  a beam  of  the  bulwarks  on  that  side,  as  an  eligible 
place  of  refuge  for  her  sheet  of  paper,  a neat  and  pretty  girl 
wrote  for  a good  hour  (she  fainted  at  last),  only  rising  to  the 
surface  occasionally  for  a dip  of  ink.  Alongside  the  boat, 
close  to  me  on  the  poop-deck,  another  girl,  a fresh  well-grown 
country  girl,  was  writing  another  letter  on  the  bare  deck. 
Later  in  the  day,  when  this  self-same  boat  was  filled  with  a 
choir  who  sang  glees  and  catches  for  a long  time,  one  of  the 
singers,  a girl,  sang  her  part  mechanically  all  the  while,  and 
wrote  a letter  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  while  doing  so. 

A stranger  would  be  puzzled  to  guess  the  right  name  for 
these  people,  Mr.  Uncommercial,”  says  the  captain. 

Indeed  he  would.” 

If  you  hadn’t  known,  could  you  ever  have  supposed  ? ” — 

How  could  I ? I should  have  said  they  were  in  their 
degree,  the  pick  and  flower  of  England.” 

So  should  I,”  says  the  captain. 

How  many  are  they  ? ” 

Eight  hundred  in  round  numbers.” 

I went  between-decks,  where  the  families  with  children 
swarmed  in  the  dark,  where  unavoidable  confusion  had  been 
caused  by  the  last  arrivals,  and  where  the  confusion  was 
increased  by  the  little  preparations  for  dinner  that  were  going 
on  in  each  group.  A few  women  here  and  there,  had  got  lost, 


216 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


and  were  laughing  at  it,  and  asking  their  way  to  their  own 
people,  or  out  on  deck  again.  A few  of  the  poor  children 
were  crying ; but  otherwise  the  universal  cheerfulness  was 
amazing.  We  shall  shake  down  by  to-morrow.’^  We 
shall  come  all  right  in  a day  or  so.’^  We  shall  have  more 
light  at  sea.’’  Such  phrases  I heard  everywhere,  as  I groped 
my  way  among  chests  and  barrels  and  beams  and  unstowed 
cargo  and  ring-bolts  and  Emigrants,  down  to  the  lower-deck, 
and  thence  up  to  the  light  of  day  again,  and  to  my  former 
station. 

Surely,  an  extraordinary  people  in  their  power  of  self- 
abstraction ! All  the  former  letter-writers  were  still  writing 
calmly,  and  many  more  letter-writers  had  broken  out  in  my 
absence.  A boy  with  a bag  of  books  in  his  hand  and  a slate 
under  his  arm,  emerged  from  below,  concentrated  himself  in 
my  neighborhood  (espying  a convenient  skylight  for  his 
purpose),  and  went  to  work  at  a sum  as  if  he  were  stone  deaf. 
A father  and  mother  and  several  young  children,  on  the  main- 
deck  below  me,  had  formed  a family  circle  close  to  the  foot  of 
the  crowded  restless  gangway,  where  the  children  made  a 
nest  for  themselves  in  a coil  of  rope,  and  the  father  and 
mother,  she  suckling  the  youngest,  discussed  family  affairs  as 
peaceably  as  if  they  were  in  perfect  retirement.  I think  the 
most  noticeable  characteristic  in  the  eight  hundred  as  a mass, 
was  their  exemption  from  hurry. 

Eight  hundred  what  ? Geese,  villain  ? ” Eight  hun- 
dred Mormons.  I Uncommercial  Traveller  for  the  firm  of 
Human  Interest  Brothers,  had  come  aboard  this  Emigrant 
Ship  to  see  what  Eight  hundred  Latter-Day  Saints  were  like, 
and  I found  them  (to  the  rout  and  overthrow  of  all  my 
expectations)  like  what  I now  describe  with  scrupulous 
exactness. 

The  Mormon  Agent  who  had  been  active  in  getting  them 
together,  and  in  making  the  contract  with  my  friends,  the 
owners  of  the  ship  to  take  them  as  far  as  New  York  oiv  their 
way  to  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  was  pointed  out  to  me.  A com- 
pactly-made handsome  man  in  black,  rather  short,  with  rich 
brown  hair  and  beard,  and  clear  bright  eyes.  From  his 
speech,  I should  set  him  down  as  American.  Brobably,  a man 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


217 


who  had  knocked  about  the  world  pretty  much.  A man 
with  a frank  open  manner,  and  unshrinking  look ; withal  a 
man  of  great  quickness.  I believe  he  was  wholly  ignorant  of 
my  Uncommercial  individuality,  and  consequently  of  my 
immense  Uncommercial  importance. 

Uncommercial.  These  are  a very  fine  set  of  people  you 
have  brought  together  here. 

Mormon  Agent.  Yes,  sir,  they  are  a very  fine  set  of 
people. 

Uncommercial  (looking  about).  Indeed,  I think  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  Eight  hundred  people  together  anywhere 
else,  and  find  so  much  beauty  and  so  much  strength  and 
capacity  for  work  among  them. 

Mormon  Agent  (not  looking  about,  but  looking  steadily  at 
Uncommercial).  I think  so.  — We  sent  out  about  a thousand 
more,  yes’day,  from  Liverpool. 

Uncommercial.  You  are  not  going  with  these  emigrants  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  No,  sir.  I remain. 

Uncommercial.  But  you  have  been  in  the  Mormon  Terri- 
tory ? 

Mormon  Agent.  Yes  ; I left  Utah  about  three  years  ago. 

Uncommercial.  It  is  surprising  to  me  that  these  people 
are  all  so  cheery,  and  make  so  little  of  the  immense  distance 
before  them. 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  you  see;  many  of  ’em  have  friends 
out  at  Utah,  and  many  of  ’em  look  forward  to  meeting  friends 
on  the  way. 

Uncommercial.  On  the  way  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  This  way  ’tis.  This  ship  lands  ’em  in 
New  York  City.  Then  they  go  on  by  rail  right  away  beyond 
St.  Louis,  to  that  part  of  the  Banks  of  the  Missouri  where 
they  strike  the  Plains.  There,  wagons  from  the  settlement 
meet  ’em  to  bear  ’em  company  on  their  journey  ’cross  — twelve 
hundred  miles  about.  Industrious  people  who  come  out  to 
the  settlement  soon  get  wagons  of  their  own,  and  so  the 
friends  of  some  of  these  will  come  down  in  their  own  wagons 
to  meet  ’em.  They  look  forward  to  that,  greatly. 

Uncommercial.  On  their  long  journey  across  the  Desert, 
do  you  arm  them  ? 


218 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Mormon  Agent.  Mostly  you  would  find  they  have  arms  of 
some  kind  or  another  already  with  them.  Such  as  had  not 
arms  we  should  arm  across  the  Plains,  for  the  general  pro- 
tection and  defence. 

Uncommercial.  Will  these  wagons  bring  down  any  prod- 
uce to  the  Missouri  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  since  the  war  broke  out,  weVe 
taken  to  growing  cotton,  and  theyfil  likely  bring  down  cotton 
to  be  exchanged  for  machinery.  We  want  machinery.  Also 
we  have  taken  to  growing  indigo,  which  is  a fine  commodity 
for  profit.  It  has  been  found  that  the  climate  on  the  further 
side  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake  suits  well  for  raising  indigo. 

Uncommercial.  I am  told  that  these  people  now  on  board 
are  principally  from  the  South  of  England  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  And  from  Wales.  ThaPs  true. 

Uncommercial.  Do  you  get  many  Scotch  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  Not  many. 

Uncommercial.  Highlanders,  for  instance. 

Mormon  Agent.  No,  not  Highlanders.  They  ain’t  in- 
terested enough  in  universal  brotherhood  and  peace  and  good 
will. 

Uncommercial.  The  old  fighting  blood  is  strong  in  them  ? 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  yes.  And  besides ; they’ve  no 
faith. 

Uncommercial  (who  has  been  burning  to  get  at  the 
Prophet  Joe  Smith,  and  seems  to  discover  an  opening). 
Faith  in ! 

Mormon  Agent  (far  too  many  for  Uncommercial).  Well. 
— In  anything ! 

Similarly  on  this  same  head,  the  Uncommercial  underwent 
discomfiture  from  a Wiltshire  laborer : a simple  fresh-colored 
farm-laborer,  of  eight  and  thirty,  who  at  one  time  stood  beside 
him  looking  on  at  new  arrivals,  and  with  whom  he  held  this 
dialogue : — 

Uncommercial.  Would  you  mind  my  asking  you  what  part 
of  the  country  you  come  from  ? 

Wiltshire.  Not  a bit.  Theer ! (exultingly)  I’ve  worked 
all  my  life  o’  Salisbury  Plain,  right  under  the  shadder  o’ 
Stonehenge.  You  mightn’t  think  it,  but  I haive. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


219 


Uncommercial.  And  a pleasant  country  too. 

Wiltshire.  Ah  ! ^Tis  a pleasant  country. 

Uncommercial.  Have  you  any  family  on  board  ? 

Wiltshire.  Two  children^  boy  and  gal.  I am  a widderer, 
I am,  and  I’m  going  out  alonger  my  boy  and  gal.  That’s  my 
gal,  and  she’s  a fine  gal  o’  sixteen  (pointing  out  the  girl  who 
is  writing  by  the  boat).  I’ll  go  and  fetch  my  boy.  I’d  like 
to  show  you  my  boy.  (Here  Wiltshire  disappears,  and  pres- 
ently comes  back  with  a big  shy  boy  of  twelve,  in  a super- 
abundance of  boots,  who  is  not  at  all  glad  to  be  presented.) 
He  is  a fine  boy  too,  and  a boy  fur  to  work  ! (Boy  having 
undutifully  bolted,  Wiltshire  drops  him.) 

Uncommercial.  It  must  cost  you  a great  deal  of  money  to 
go  so  far,  three  strong. 

Wiltshire.  A power  of  money.  Theer ! Eight  shillen 
a week,  eight  shillen  a week,  eight  shillen  a week,  put  by  out 
of  the  week’s  wages  for  ever  so  long. 

Uncommercial.  I wonder  how  you  did  it. 

Wiltshire  (recognizing  in  this  a kindred  spirit).  See 
theer  now  ! I wonder  how  I done  it ! But  what  with  a bit  o’ 
subscription  heer,  and  what  with  a bit  o’  help  theer,  it  were 
done  at  last,  though  I don’t  hardly  know  how.  Then  it  were 
unfort’net  for  us,  you  see,  as  we  got  kep’  in  Bristol  so  long  — 
nigh  a fortnight,  it  were  — on  accounts  of  a mistake  wi’ 
Brother  Halliday.  S waller’ d up  money,  it  did,  when  we 
might  have  come  straight  on. 

Uncommercial  (delicately  approaching  Joe  Smith).  You 
are  of  the  Mormon  religion,  of  course  ? 

Wiltshire  (confidently).  0 yes,  7’m  a Mormon.  (Then 
reflectively.)  I’m  a Mormon.  (Then,  looking  round  the  ship, 
feigns  to  descry  a particular  friend  in  an  empty  spot,  and 
evades  the  Uncommercial  forevermore.) 

After  a noontide  pause  for  dinner,  during  which  my  Emi- 
grants were  nearly  all  between-decks,  and  the  Amazon  looked 
deserted,  a general  muster  took  place.  The  muster  was 
for  the  ceremony  of  passing  the  Government  Inspector  and 
the  Doctor.  Those  authorities  held  their  temporary  state 
amidships,  by  a cask  or  two ; and,  knowing  that  the  whole 
Eight  hundred  emigrants  must  come  face  to  face  with  them, 


220 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


I took  my  station  behind  the  two.  They  knew  nothing 
whatever  of  me,  I believe,  and  my  testimony  to  the  unpre- 
tending gentleness  and  good  nature  with  which  they  discharged 
their  duty,  may  be  of  the  greater  worth.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  flavor  of  the  Circumlocution  Office  about  their 
proceedings. 

The  emigrants  were  now  all  on  deck.  They  were  densely 
crowded  aft,  and  swarmed  upon  the  poop-deck  like  bees. 
Two  or  three  Mormon  agents  stood  ready  to  hand  them  on  to 
the  Inspector,  and  to  hand  them  forward  when  they  had 
passed.  By  what  successful  means,  a special  aptitude  for 
organization  had  been  infused  into  these  people,  I am,  of 
course,  unable  to  report.  But  I know  that,  even  now,  there 
was  no  disorder,  hurry,  or  difficulty. 

All  being  ready,  the  first  group  are  handed  on.  That  mem- 
ber of  the  party  who  is  intrusted  with  the  passenger-ticket 
for  the  whole,  has  been  warned  by  one  of  the  agents  to  have 
it  ready,  and  here  it  is  in  his  hand.  In  every  instance 
through  the  whole  eight  hundred,  without  an  exception,  this 
paper  is  always  ready. 

Inspector  (reading  the  ticket).  Jessie  Jobson,  Sophronia 
Jobson,  Jessie  Jobson  again,  Matilda  Jobson,  William  Job- 
son,  Jane  Jobson,  Matilda  Jobson  again,  Brigham  Jobson, 
Leonardo  Jobson,  and  Orson  Jobson.  Are  you  all  here  ? 
(glancing  at  the  party,  over  his  spectacles). 

Jessie  Jobson  Number  Two.  All  here,  sir. 

This  group  is  composed  of  an  old  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother, their  married  son  and  his  wife,  and  their  family  of 
children.  Orson  Jobson  is  a little  child  asleep  in  his 
mother’s  arms.  The  Doctor  with  a kind  word  or  so,  lifts 
up  the  corner  of  the  mother’s  shawl,  looks  at  the  child’s 
face,  and  touches  the  little  clinched  hand.  If  we  were 
all  as  well  as  Orson  Jobson,  doctoring  would  be  a poor  pro- 
fession. ^ 

Inspector.  Quite  right,  Jessie  Jobson.  Take  your  ticket, 
Jessie,  and  pass  on. 

And  away  they  go.  Mormon  agent,  skilful  and  quiet, 
hands  them  on.  Mormon  agent,  skilful  and  quiet,  hands 
next  party  up. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


221 


Inspector  (reading  ticket  again).  Susannah  Cleverly  and 
William  Cleverly.  Brother  and  sister,  eh  ? 

Sister  (young  woman  of  business,  hustling  slow  brother). 
Yes,  sir. 

Inspector.  Very  good,  Susannah  Cleverly.  Take  your 
ticket,  Susannah,  and  take  care  of  it. 

And  away  they  go. 

Inspector  (taking  ticket  again).  Sampson  Dibble  and 
Dorothy  Dibble  (surveying  a very  old  couple  over  his  spec- 
tacles, with  some  surprise).  Your  husband  quite  blind,  Mrs. 
Dibble  ? 

Mrs.  Dibble.  Yes,  sir,  he  be  stone  blind. 

Mr.  Dibble  (addressing  the  mast).  Yes,  sir,  I be  stone 
blind. 

Inspector.  That’s  a bad  job.  Take  your  ticket,  Mrs. 
Dibble,  and  don’t  lose  it,  and  pass  on. 

Doctor  taps  Mr.  Dibble  on  the  eyebrow  with  his  forefinger, 
and  away  they  go. 

Inspector  (taking  ticket  again).  Anastatia  Weedle. 

Anastatia  (a  pretty  girl  in  a bright  Garibaldi,  this  morn- 
ing elected  by  universal  suffrage  the  Beauty  of  the  Ship). 
That  is  me,  sir. 

Inspector.  Going  alone,  Anastatia  ? 

Anastatia  (shaking  her  curls).  I am  with  Mrs.  Jobson,  sir, 
but  I’ve  got  separated  for  the  moment. 

Inspector.  Oh  ! you  are  with  the  Jobsons  ? Quite  right. 
That’ll  do.  Miss  Weedle.  Don’t  lose  your  ticket. 

Away  she  goes,  and  joins  the  Jobsons  who  are  waiting  for 
her,  and  stoops  and  kisses  Brigham  Jobson  — who  appears  to 
be  considered  too  young  for  the  purpose,  by  several  Mormons 
rising  twenty,  who  are  looking  on.  Before  her  extensive 
skirts  have  departed  from  the  casks  a decent  widow  stands 
there  with  four  children,  and  so  the  roll  goes. 

The  faces  of  some  of  the  W^elsh  people,  among  whom  there 
were  many  old  persons,  were  certainly  the  least  intelligent. 
Some  of  these  emigrants  would  have  bungled  sorely,  but  for 
the  directing  hand  that  was  always  ready.  The  intelligence 
here  was  unquestionably  of  a low  order,  and  the  heads  were 
of  a poor  type.  Generally  the  case  was  the  reverse.  There 


222 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TEAVELLEB. 


were  many  worn  faces  bearing  traces  of  patient  poverty 
and  hard  work,  and  there  was  great  steadiness  of  purpose 
and  much  undemonstrative  self-respect  among  this  class.  ’ A 
few  young  men  were  going  singly.  Several  girls  were  going, 
two  or  three  together.  These  latter  I found  it  very  difficult 
to  refer  back,  in  my  mind,  to  their  relinquished  homes  and 
pursuits.  Perhaps  they  were  more  like  country  milliners, 
and  pupil  teachers  rather  tawdrily  dressed,  than  any  other 
classes  of  young  women.  I noticed,  among  many  little 
ornaments  worn,  more  than  one  photograph-brooch  of  the 
Princess  of  Wales,  and  also  of  the  late  Prince  Consort.  Some 
single  women  of  from  thirty  to  forty,  whom  one  might  sup- 
pose to  be  embroiderers,  or  straw-bonnet  makers,  were  obvi- 
ously going  out  in  quest  of  husbands,  as  finer  ladies  go  to  India. 
That  they  had  any  distinct  notions  of  a plurality  of  husbands 
or  wives,  I do  not  believe.  To  suppose  the  family  groups  of 
whom  the  majority  of  emigrants  were  composed,  poly  gam  i- 
cally  possessed,  would  be  to  suppose  an  absurdity,  manifest  to 
any  one  who  saw  the  fathers  and  mothers. 

I should  say  (I  had  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  fact)  that 
most  familiar  kinds  of  handicraft  trades  were  represented 
here.  Farm-laborers,  shepherds,  and  the  like,  had  their  full 
share  of  representation,  but  I doubt  if  they  preponderated. 
It  was  interesting  to  see  how  the  leading  spirit  in  the  family 
circle  never  failed  to  show  itself,  even  in  the  simple  process  of 
answering  to  the  names  as  they  were  called,  and  checking  off 
the  owners  of  the  names.  Sometimes  it  was  the  father,  much 
oftener  the  mother,  sometimes  a quick  little  girl  second  or 
third  in  order  of  seniority.  It  seemed  to  occur  for  the  first 
time  to  some  heavy  fathers,  what  large  families  they  had; 
and  their  eyes  rolled  about,  during  the  calling  of  the  list,  as 
if  they  half  misdoubted  some  other  family  to  have  been 
smuggled  into  their  own.  Among  all  the  fine  handsome 
children,  I observed  but  two  with  marks  upon  their  necks 
that  were  probably  scrofulous.  Out  of  the  whole  number  of 
emigrants,  but  one  old  woman  was  temporarily  set  aside  by 
the  doctor,  on  suspicion  of  fever ; but  even  she  afterwards 
obtained  a clean  bill  of  health. 

When  all  had  passed/^  and  the  afternoon  began  to  wear 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


223 


on,  a black  box  became  visible  on  deck,  which  box  was  in 
charge  of  certain  personages  also  in  black,  of  whom  only  one 
had  the  conventional  air  of  an  itinerant  preacher.  This  box 
contained  a supply  of  hymn-books,  neatly  printed  and  got  up, 
published  at  Liverpool,  and  also  in  London  at  the  Latter- 
Day  Saints’  Book  Depot,  30,  Florence  Street.”  Some  copies 
were  handsomely  bound ; the  plainer  were  the  more  in  request, 
and  many  were  bought.  The  title  ran  : Sacred  Hymns  and 
Spiritual  Songs  for  the  Church  of  J esus  Christ  of  Latter-Day 
Saints.”  The  Preface,  dated  Manchester,  1840,  ran  thus  : — 

The  Saints  in  this  country  have  been  very  desirous  for  a 
Hymn  Book  adapted  to  their  faith  and  worship,  that  they 
might  sing  the  truth  with  an  understanding  heart,  and  express 
their  praise  joy  and  gratitude  in  songs  adapted  to  the  Hew 
and  Everlasting  Covenant.  In  accordance  with  their  wishes, 
we  have  selected  the  following  volume,  which  we  hope  will 
prove  acceptable  until  a greater  variety  can  be  added.  With 
sentiments  of  high  consideration  and  esteem,  we  subscribe 
ourselves  your  brethren  in  the  Hew  and  Everlasting  Cove- 
nant, Brigham  Young,  Parley  P.  Pratt,  John  Taylor.” 
From  this  book  — by  no  means  explanatory  to  myself  of  the 
Hew  and  Everlasting  Covenant,  and  not  at  all  making  my 
heart  an  understanding  one  on  the  subject  of  that  mystery  — 
a hymn  was  sung,  which  did  not  attract  any  great  amount  of 
attention,  and  was  supported  by  a rather  select  circle.  But 
the  choir  in  the  boat  was  very  popular  and  pleasant ; and 
there  was  to  have  been  a Band,  only  the  Cornet  was  late  in 
coming  on  board.  In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  a mother 
appeared  from  shore,  in  search  of  her  daughter,  who  had 
run  away  with  the  Mormons.”  She  received  every  assistance 
from  the  Inspector,  but  her  daughter  was  not  found  to  be  on 
board.  The  saints  did  not  seem  to  me,  particularly  interested 
in  finding  her. 

Towards  five  o’clock,  the  galley  became  full  of  tea-kettles, 
and  an  agreeable  fragrance  of  tea  pervaded  the  ship.  There 
was  no  scrambling  or  jostling  for  the  hot  water,  no  ill  humor, 
no  quarrelling.  As  the  Amazon  was  to  sail  with  the  next 
tide,  and  as  it  would  not  be  high  water  before  two  o’clock  in 
the  morning,  I left  her  with  her  tea  in  full  action,  and  her 


224 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


idle  Steam  Tug  lying  by,  deputing  steam  and  smoke  for  the 
time-being  to  the  Tea-kettles. 

I afterwards  learned  that  a Despatch  was  sent  home  by  the 
captain  before  he  struck  out  into  the  wide  Atlantic,  highly 
extolling  the  behavior  of  these  Emigrants,  and  the  perfect 
order  and  propriety  of  all  their  social  arrangements.  What 
is  in  store  for  the  poor  people  on  the  shores  of  the  Great  Salt 
Lake,  what  happy  delusions  they  are  laboring  under  now,  on 
what  miserable  blindness  their  eyes  may  be  opened  then,  I 
do  not  pretend  to  say.  But  I went  on  board  their  ship  to 
bear  testimony  against  them  if  they  deserved  it,  as  I fully 
believed  they  would ; to  my  great  astonishment  they  did  not 
deserve  it ; and  my  predispositions  and  tendencies  must  not 
affect  me  as  an  honest  witness.  I went  over  the  Amazonas 
side,  feeling  it  impossible  to  deny  that,  so  far,  some  remark- 
able influence  had  produced  a remarkable  result,  which  better 
known  influences  have  often  missed.^ 

1 After  this  Uncommercial  Journey  was  printed,  I happened  to  mention  the 
experience  it  describes  to  Lord  Houghton.  That  gentleman  then  showed  me  an 
article  of  his  writing,  in  The  Edinburgh  Review  for  January,  1862,  which  is  highly 
remarkable  for  its  philosophical  and  literary  research  concerning  these  Latter-Day 
Saints.  I find  in  it  the  following  sentences  ; — “ The  Select  Committee  of  the  House 
of  Commons  on  emigrant  ships  for  1854  summoned  the  Mormon  agent  and  passen- 
ger-broker before  it,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  no  ships  under  the  provisions 
of  the  ‘ Passengers  Act  ’ could  be  depended  upon  for  comfort  and  security  in  the 
same  degree  as  those  under  his  administration.  The  Mormon  ship  is  a Family  under 
strong  and  accepted  discipline,  with  every  provision  for  comfort,  decorum,  and 
internal  peace.” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


225 


XXI. 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  ABSENT. 

When  I think  I deserve  particularly  well  of  myself,  and 
have  earned  the  right  to  enjoy  a little  treat,  I stroll  from 
Covent  Garden  into  the  City  of  London,  after  business-hours 
there,  on  a Saturday,  or  — better  yet  — on  a Sunday,  and  roam 
about  its  deserted  nooks  and  corners.  It  is  necessary  to  the 
full  enjoyment  of  these  journeys  that  they  should  be  made  in 
summer-time,  for  then  the  retired  spots  that  I love  to  haunt, 
are  at  their  idlest  and  dullest.  A gentle  fall  of  rain  is  not 
objectionable,  and  a warm  mist  sets  off  my  favorite  retreats 
to  decided  advantage. 

Among  these.  City  Churchyards  hold  a high  place.  Such 
strange  churchyards  hide  in  the  City  of  London  ; churchyards 
sometimes  so  entirely  detached  from  churches,  always  so 
pressed  upon  by  houses ; so  small,  so  rank,  so  silent,  so  for- 
gotten, except  by  the  few  people  who  ever  look  down  into 
them  from  their  smoky  windows.  As  I stand  peeping  in 
through  the  iron  gates  and  rails,  I can  peel  the  rusty  metal 
off,  like  bark  from  an  old  tree.  The  illegible  tombstones  are 
all  lop-sided,  the  grave-mounds  lost  their  shape  in  the  rains  of 
a hundred  years  ago,  the  Lombardy  Poplar  or  Plane-tree  that 
was  once  a drysaltePs  daughter  and  several  common-coun- 
ci Imen,  has  withered  like  those  worthies,  and  its  departed 
leaves  are  dust  beneath  it.  Contagion  of  slow  ruin  overhangs 
the  place.  The  discolored  tiled  roofs  of  the  environing  build- 
ings stand  so  awry,  that  they  can  hardly  be  proof  against  any 
stress  of  weather.  Old  crazy  stacks  of  chimneys  seem  to 
look  down  as  they  overhang,  dubiously  calculating  how  far 
they  will  have  to  fall.  In  an  angle  of  the  walls,  what  was 
once  the  tool-house  of  the  grave-digger  rots  away,  incrusted 
with  toad-stools.  Pipes  and  spouts  for  carrying  off  the  rain 
from  the  encompassing  gables,  broken  or  feloniously  cut  for 


226 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


old  lead  long  ago/ now  let  the  rain  drip  and  splash  as  it  list, 
upon  the  weedy  earth.  Sometimes  there  is  a rusty  pump 
somewhere  near,  and,  as  I look  in  at  the  rails  and  meditate,  I 
hear  it  working  under  an  unknown  hand  with  a creaking 
protest : as  though  the  departed  in  the  churchyard  urged, 

Let  us  lie  here  in  peace  ; don’t  suck  us  up  and  drink  us  ! ” 

One  of  my  best  beloved  churchyards,  I call  the  churchyard 
of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim  ; touching  what  men  in  general  call  it, 
I have  no  information.  It  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  City,  and 
the  Blackwall  Railway  shrieks  at  it  daily.  It  is  a small  small 
churchyard,  with  a ferocious  strong  spiked  iron  gate,  like  a 
jail.  This  gate  is  ornamented  with  skulls  and  cross-bones, 
larger  than  the  life,  wrought  in  stone  ; but  it  likewise  came 
into  the  mind  of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  that  to  stick  iron  spikes 
a-top  of  the  stone  skulls,  as  though  they  were  impaled,  would 
be  a pleasant  device.  Therefore  the  skulls  grin  aloft  horribly, 
thrust  through  and  through  with  iron  spears.  Hence,  there 
is  attraction  of  repulsion  for  me  in  Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  and, 
having  often  contemplated  it  in  the  daylight  and  the  dark,  I 
once  felt  drawn  towards  it  in  a thunderstorm  at  midnight. 

Why  not  ? ” I said,  in  self-excuse.  I have  been  to  see 
the  Colosseum  by  the  light  of  the  moon  ; is  it  worse  to  go  to 
see  Saint  Ghastly  Grim  by  the  light  of  the  lightning  ? ” I 
repaired  to  the  Saint  in  a hackney  cab,  and  found  the  skulls 
most  effective,  having  the  air  of  a public  execution,  and  seem- 
ing, as  the  lightning  flashed,  to  wink  and  grin  with  the  pain 
of  the  spikes.  Having  no  other  person  to  whom  to  impart  my 
satisfaction,  I communicated  it  to  the  driver.  So  far  from 
being  responsive,  he  surveyed  me  — he  was  naturally  a bottle- 
nosed red-faced  man  — with  a blanched  countenance.  And  as 
he  drove  me  back,  he  ever  and  again  glanced  in  over  his 
shoulder  through  the  little  front  window  of  his  carriage,  as 
mistrusting  that  I was  a fare  originally  from  a grave  in  the 
churchyard  of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  who  might  have  flitted 
home  again  without  paying. 

Sometimes,  the  queer  Hall  of  some  queer  Company  gives 
upon  a churchyard  such  as  this,  and,  when  the  Livery  dine, 
you  may  hear  them  (if  you  are  looking  in  through  the  iron 
rails,  which  you  never  are  when  I am)  toasting  their  own 


TIME  AND  HIS  WIFE. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


227 


Worshipful  prosperity.  Sometimes,  a wholesale  house  of 
business,  requiring  much  room  for  stowage,  will  occupy  one 
or  two  or  even  all  three  sides  of  the  enclosing  space,  and  the 
backs  of  bales  of  goods  will  lumber  up  the  windows,  as  if 
they  were  holding  some  crowded  trade-meeting  of  themselves 
within.  Sometimes,  the  commanding  windows  are  all  blank, 
and  show  no  more  sign  of  life  than  the  graves  below  — not  so 
much,  for  they  tell  of  what  once  upon  a time  was  life  undoubt- 
edly. Such  was  the  surrounding  of  one  City  churchyard  that 
I saw  last  summer,  on  a Volunteering  Saturday  evening  towards 
eight  of  the  clock,  when  with  astonishment  I beheld  an  old  old 
man  and  an  old  old  woman  in  it,  making  hay.  Yes,  of  all 
occupations  in  this  world,  making  hay ! It  was  a very  con- 
fined patch  of  churchyard  lying  between  Grace  Church  Street 
and  the  Tower,  capable  of  yielding,  say  an  apronful  of  hay. 
By  what  means  the  old  old  man  and  woman  had  got  into  it, 
with  an  almost  toothless  hay-making  rake,  I could  not  fathom. 
Iso  open  window  was  within  view  ; no  window  at  all  was  within 
view,  sufficiently  near  the  ground  to  have  enabled  their  old 
legs  to  descend  from  it ; the  rusty  churchyard  gate  was  locked, 
the  mouldy  church  was  locked.  Gravely  among  the  graves, 
they  made  hay,  all  alone  by  themselves.  They  looked  like 
Time  and  his  wife.  There  was  but  the  one  rake  between 
them,  and  they  both  had  hold  of  it  in  a pastorally-loving  man- 
ner, and  there  was  hay  on  the  old  woman’s  black  bonnet,  as  if 
the  old  man  had  recently  been  playful.  The  old  man  was 
quite  an  obsolete  old  man,  in  knee-breeches  and  coarse  gray 
stockings,  and  the  old  woman  wore  mittens  like  unto  his 
stockings  in  texture  and  in  color.  They  took  no  heed  of  me 
as  I looked  on,  unable  to  account  for  them.  The  old  woman 
was  much  too  bright  for  a pew-opener,  the  old  man  much  too 
meek  for  a beadle.  On  an  old  tombstone  in  the  foreground 
between  me  and  them,  were  two  cherubim  ; but  for  those  celes- 
tial embellishments  being  represented  as  having  no  possible 
use  for  knee-breeches,  stockings,  or  mittens,  I should  have 
compared  them  with  the  haymakers,  and  sought  a likeness. 
I coughed  and  awoke  the  echoes,  but  the  haymakers  never 
looked  at  me.  They  used  the  rake  with  a measured  action, 
drawing  the  scanty  crop  towards  them  ; and  so  I was  fain  to 


228 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLEB. 


leave  them  under  three  yards  and  a half  of  darkening  sky, 
gravely  making  hay  among  the  graves,  all  alone  by  them- 
selves. Perhaps  they  were  Spectres,  and  I wanted  a Medium. 

In  another  City  churchyard  of  similar  cramped  dimensions, 
I saw,  that  self-same  summer,  two  comfortable  charity  chil- 
dren. They  were  making  love  — tremendous  proof  of  the 
vigor  of  that  immortal  article,  for  they  were  in  the  graceful 
uniform  under  which  English  Charity  delights  to  hide  herself 
— and  they  were  overgrown,  and  their  legs  (his  legs  at  least, 
for  I am  modestly  incompetent  to  speak  of  hers)  were  as  much 
in  the  wrong  as  mere  passive  weakness  of  character  can  render 
legs.  0 it  was  a leaden  churchyard,  but  no  doubt  a golden 
ground  to  those  young  persons  ! I first  saw  them  on  a Satur- 
day evening,  and,  perceiving  from  their  occupation  that  Satur- 
day evening  was  their  trysting-time,  I returned  that  evening 
se’nnight,  and  renewed  the  contemplation  of  them.  They  came 
there  to  shake  the  bits  of  matting  which  were  spread  in  the 
church  aisles,  and  they  afterwards  rolled  them  up,  he  rolling 
his  end,  she  rolling  hers,  until  they  met,  and  over  the  two 
once  divided  now  united  rolls  — sweet  emblem  ! — gave  and 
received  a chaste  salute.  It  was  so  refreshing  to  find  one  of 
my  faded  churchyards  blooming  into  flower  thus,  that  I 
returned  a second  time,  and  a third,  and  ultimately  this 
befell : — They  had  left  the  church  door  open,  in  their  dust- 
ing and  arranging.  Walking  in  to  look  at  the  church,  I became 
aware,  by  the  dim  light,  of  him  in  the  pulpit,  of  her  in  the 
reading-desk,  of  him  looking  down,  of  her  looking  up,  exchan- 
ging tender  discourse.  Immediately  both  dived,  and  became 
as  it  were  non-existent  on  this  sphere.  With  an  assumption 
of  innocence  I turned  to  leave  the  sacred  edifice,  when  an 
obese  form  stood  in  the  portal,  puffily  demanding  Joseph,  or 
in  default  of  Joseph,  Celia.  Taking  this  monster  by  the 
sleeve,  and  luring  him  forth  on  pretence  of  showing  him 
whom  he  sought,  I gave  time  for  the  emergence  of  Joseph 
and  Celia,  who  presently  came  towards  us  in  the  churchyard, 
bending  under  dusty  matting,  a picture  of  thriving  and  uncon- 
scious industry.  It  would  be  superfluous  to  hint  that  I have 
ever  since  deemed  this  the  proudest  passage  in  my  life. 

But  such  instances,  or  any  tokens  of  vitality,  are  rare  indeed 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


229 


in  my  City  churchyards.  A few  sparrows  occasionally  try  to 
raise  a lively  chirrup  in  their  solitary  tree  — perhaps,  as  taking 
a different  view  of  worms  from  that  entertained  by  humanity 
— but  they  are  flat  and  hoarse  of  voice,  like  the  clerk,  the 
organ,  the  bell,  the  clergyman,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Church 
works  when  they  are  wound  up  for  Sunday.  Caged  larks, 
thrushes,  or  blackbirds,  hanging  in  neighboring  courts,  pour 
forth  their  strains  passionately,  as  scenting  the  tree,  trying  to 
break  out,  and  see  leaves  again  before  they  die,  but  their  song 
is  Willow,  Willow  — of  a churchyard  cast.  So  little  light 
lives  inside  the  churches  of  my  churchyards,  when  the  two  are 
co-existent,  that  it  is  often  only-  by  an  accident  and  after  long 
acquaintance  that  I discover  their  having  stained  glass  in 
some  odd  window.  The  westering  sun  slants  into  the  church- 
yard by  some  unwonted  entry,  a few  prismatic  tears  drop  on 
an  old  tombstone,  and  a window  that  I thought  was  only  dirty, 
is  for  the  moment  all  bejewelled.  Then  the  light  passes  and 
the  colors  die.  Though  even  then,  if  there  be  room  enough 
for  me  to  fall  back  so  far  as  that  I can  gaze  up  to  the  top  of  the 
Church  Tower,  I see  the  rusty  vane  new  burnished,  and  seem- 
ing to  look  out  with  a joyful  flash  over  the  sea  of  smoke  at 
the  distant  shore  of  country. 

Blinking  old  men  who  are  let  out  of  workhouses  by  the 
hour,  have  a teiTdency  to  sit  on  bits  of  coping-stone  in  these 
churchyards,  leaning  with  both  hands  on  their  sticks  and 
asthmatically  gasping.  The  more  depressed  class  of  beggars 
too,  bring  hither  broken  meats,  and  munch.  I am  on  nod- 
ding terms  with  a meditative  turncock  who  lingers  in  one  of 
them,  and  whom  I suspect  of  a turn  for  poetry ; the  rather, 
as  he  looks  out  of  temper  when  he  gives  the  fire-plug  a dis- 
paraging wrench  with  that  large  tuning-fork  of  his  which 
would  wear  out  the  shoulder  of  his  coat,  but  for  a precau- 
tionary piece  of  inlaid  leather.  Fire-ladders,  which  I am 
satisfied  nobody  knows  anything  about,  and  the  keys  of  which 
were  lost  in  ancient  times,  moulder  away  in  the  larger  church- 
yards, under  eaves  like  wooden  eyebrows  ; and  so  removed 
are  those  corners  from  the  haunts  of  men  and  boys,  that  once 
on  a fifth  of  November  I found  a ^^Guy ’’  trusted  fo  take  care 
of  himself  there,  while  his  proprietors  had  gone  to  dinner. 


230 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Of  the  expression  of  his  face  I cannot  report,  because  it  was 
turned  to  the  wall ; but  his  shrugged  shoulders  and  his  ten 
extended  lingers,  appeared  to  denote  that  he  had  moralized  in 
his  little  straw  chair  on  the  mystery  of  mortality  until  he 
gave  it  up  as  a bad  job. 

You  do  not  come  upon  these  churchyards  violently ; there 
are  shades  of  transition  in  the  neighborhood.  An  antiquated 
news-shop,  or  barber’s  shop,  apparently  bereft  of  customers 
in  the  earlier  days  of  George  the  Third,  would  warn  me  to 
look  out  for  one,  if  any  discoveries  in  this  respect  were  left 
for  me  to  make.  A very  quiet  court,  in  combination  with  an 
unaccountable  dyer’s  and  scourer’s,  would  prepare  me  for  a 
churchyard.  An  exceedingly  retiring  public-house,  with  a 
bagatelle-board  shadily  visible  in  a sawdusty  parlor  shaped 
like  an  omnibus,  and  with  a shelf  of  punch-bowls  in  the  bar, 
would  apprise  me  that  I stood  near  consecrated  ground.  A 
Dairy,”  exhibiting  in  its  modest  window  one  very  little 
milk-can  and  three  eggs,  would  suggest  to  me  the  certainty  of 
finding  the  poultry  hard  by,  pecking  at  my  forefathers.  I 
first  inferred  the  vicinity  of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  from  a cer- 
tain air  of  extra  repose  and  gloom  pervading  a vast  stack  of 
warehouses. 

From  the  hush  of  these  places,  it  is  congenial  to  pass  into 
the  hushed  resorts  of  business.  Down  the  lanes  I like  to  see 
the  carts  and  wagons  huddled  together  in  repose,  the  cranes 
idle,  and  the  warehouses  shut.  Pausing  in  the  alleys  behind 
the  closed  Banks  of  mighty  Lombard  Street,  it  gives  one  as 
good  as  a rich  feeling  to  think  of  the  broad  counters  with  a 
rim  along  the  edge,  made  for  telling  money  out  on,  the  scales 
for  weighing  precious  metals,  the  ponderous  ledgers,  and, 
above  all,  the  bright  copper  shovels  for  shovelling  gold.  When 
I draw  money,  it  never  seems  so  much  money  as  when  it  is 
shovelled  at  me  out  of  a bright  copper  shovel.  I like  to  say. 
In  gold,”  and  to  see  seven  pounds  musically  pouring  out  of 
the  shovel,  like  seventy ; the  Bank  appearing  to  remark  to  me 
— I italicize  ajpjpearing  — if  you  want  more  of  this  yellow 
earth,  we  keep  it  in  barrows  at  your  service.”  To  think  of 
the  banker’s  clerk  with  his  deft  finger  turning  the  crisp  edges 
of  the  Hundred  Pound  Notes  he  has  taken  in  a fat  roll  out  of 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


231 


a drawer,  is  again  to  hear  the  rustling  of  that  delicious  south- 
cash  wind.  How  will  you  have  it  ? I once  heard  this 
usual  question  asked  at  a Bank  Counter  of  an  elderly  female, 
habited  in  mourning  and  steeped  in  simplicity,  who  answered, 
open-eyed,  crook-fingered,  laughing  with  expectation,  Any- 
how ! Calling  these  things  to  mind  as  I stroll  among  the 
Banks,  I wonder  whether  the  other  solitary  Sunday  man  I 
pass,  has  designs  upon  the  Banks.  For  the  interest  and 
mystery  of  the  matter,  I almost  hope  he  may  have,  and  that 
his  confederate  may  be  at  this  moment  taking  impressions 
of  the  keys  of  the  iron  closets  in  wax,  and  that  a delightful 
robbery  may  be  in  course  of  transaction.  About  College  Hill, 
Mark  Lane,  and  so  on  towards  the  Tower,  and  Dock  ward,  the 
deserted  wine-merchants’  cellars  are  fine  subjects  for  consid- 
eration ; but  the  deserted  money-cellars  of  the  Bankers,  and 
their  plate-cellars,  and  their  jewel-cellars,  what  subterranean 
regions  of  the  Wonderful  Lamp  are  these!  And  again: 
possibly  some  shoeless  boy  in  rags,  passed  through  this  street 
yesterday,  for  whom  it  is  reserved  to  be  a Banker  in  the  ful- 
ness of  time,  and  to  be  surpassing  rich.  Such  reverses  have 
been,  since  the  days  of  Whittington ; and  were,  long  before. 
I want  to  know  whether  the  boy  has  any  foreglittering  of 
that  glittering  fortune  now,  when  he  treads  these  stones, 
hungry.  Much  as  I also  want  to  know  whether  the  next  man 
to  be  hanged  at  Hewgate  yonder,  had  any  suspicion  upon  him 
that  he  was  moving  steadily  towards  that  fate,  when  he  talked 
so  much  about  the  last  man  who  paid  the  same  great  debt  at 
the  same  small  Debtors’  Door. 

Where  are  all  the  people  who  on  busy  working-days  pervade 
these  scenes  ? The  locomotive  banker’s  clerk,  who  carries  a 
black  portfolio  chained  to  him  by  a chain  of  steel,  where  is 
he  ? Does  he  go  to  bed  with  his  chain  on  — to  church  with 
his  chain  on  — or  does  he  lay  it  by  ? And  if  he  lays  it  by, 
what  becomes  of  his  portfolio  when  he  is  unchained  for  a 
holiday  ? The  waste-paper  baskets  of  these  closed  counting- 
houses  would  let  me  into  many  hints  of  business  matters  if  I 
had  the  exploration  of  them  ; and  what  secrets  of  the  heart 
should  I discover  on  the  pads  ” of  the  young  clerks  — the 
sheets  of  cartridge-paper  and  blotting-paper  interposed  between 


232 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


their  writing  and  their  desks  ! Pads  are  taken  into  confidence 
on  the  tenderest  occasions,  and  oftentimes  when  I have  made 
a business  visit,  and  have  sent  in  my  name  from  the  outer 
office,  have  I had  it  forced  on  my  discursive  notice  that  the 
officiating  young  gentleman  has  over  and  over  again  inscribed 
Amelia,  in  ink  of  various  dates,  on  corners  of  his  pad.  Indeed, 
the  pad  may  be  regarded  as  the  legitimate  modern  successor 
of  the  old  forest-tree : whereon  these  young  knights  (having 
no  attainable  forest  nearer  than  Epping)  engraved  the  names 
of  their  mistresses.  After  all,  it  is  a more  satisfactory  process 
than  carving,  and  can  be  oftener  repeated.  So  these  courts  in 
their  Sunday  rest  are  courts  of  Love  Omnipotent  (I  rejoice  to 
bethink  myself),  dry  as  they  look.  And  here  is  Garraway’s, 
bolted  and  shuttered  hard  and  fast ! It  is  possible  to  imagine 
the  man  who  cuts  the  sandwiches,  on  his  back  in  a hayfield; 
it  is  possible  to  imagine  his  desk,  like  the  desk  of  a clerk  at 
church,  without  him ; but  imagination  is  unable  to  pursue  the 
men  who  wait  at  Garraway’s  all  the  week  for  the  men  who 
never  come.  - When  they  are  forcibly  put  out  of  Garra way’s 
on  Saturday  night  — which  they  must  be,  for  they  never  would 
go  out  of  their  own  accord  — where  do  they  vanish  until  Mon- 
day morning  ? On  the  first  Sunday  that  I ever  strayed  here,  I 
expected  to  find  them  hovering  about  these  lanes,  like  restless 
ghosts,  and  trying  to  peep  into  Garraway’s  through  chinks  in 
the  shutters,  if  not  endeavoring  to  turn  the  lock  of  the  door 
with  false  keys,  picks,  and  screw-drivers.  But  the  wonder  is, 
that  they  go  clean  away ! And  now  I think  of  it,  the  wonder 
is,  that  every  working-day  pervader  of  these  scenes  goes  clean 
away.  The  man  who  sells  the  dogs’  collars  and  the  little  toy 
coal-scuttles,  feels  under  as  great  an  obligation  to  go  afar  off, 
as  Glyn  and  Co.,  or  Smith,  Payne,  and  Smith.  There  is  an  old 
monastery-crypt  under  Garraway’s  (I  have  been  in  it  among 
the  port  wine),  and  perhaps  Garraway’s,  taking  pity  on  the 
mouldy  men  who  wait  in  its  public-room  all  their  lives,  gives 
them  cool  house-room  down  there  over  Sundays ; but  the  cata- 
combs of  Paris  would  not  be  large  enough  to  hold  the  rest  of 
the  missing.  This  characteristic  of  London  City  greatly  helps 
its  being  the  quaint  place  it  is  in  the  weekly  pause  of  business, 
and  greatly  helps  my  Sundaj^  sensation  in  it  of  being  the  Last 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


233 


Man.  In  my  solitude,  the  ticket-porters  being  all  gone  with 
the  rest,  I venture  to  breathe  to  the  quiet  bricks  and  stones 
my  confidential  wonderment  why  a ticket-porter,  who  never 
does  any  work  with  his  hands,  is  bound  to  wear  a white  apron, 
and  why  a great  Ecclesiastical  Dignitary,  who  never  does  any 
work  with  his  hands  either,  is  equally  bound  to  wear  a black 
one. 


234 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


XXII. 

AN  OLD  STAGE-COACHING  HOUSE. 

Before  the  waitress  had  shut  the  door,  I had  forgotten  how 
many  stage-coaches  she  said  used  to  change  horses  in  the  town 
every  day.  But  it  was  of  little  moment ; any  high  number 
would  do  as  well  as  another.  It  had  been  a great  stage-coach- 
ing town  in  the  great  stage-coaching  times,  and  the  ruthless 
railways  had  killed  and  buried  it. 

The  sign  of  the  house  was  the  Dolphin’s  head.  Why  only 
head,  I don’t  know ; for  the  Dolphin’s  effigy  at  full  length, 
and  upside  down  — as  a Dolphin  is  always  bound  to  be  when 
artistically  treated,  though  I suppose  he  is  sometimes  right 
side  upward  in  his  natural  condition  — graced  the  sign-board. 
The  sign-board  chafed  its  rusty  hooks  outside  the  bow-window 
of  my  room,  and  was  a shabby  work.  Xo  visitor  could  have 
denied  that  the  Dolphin  was  dying  by  inches,  but  he  showed 
no  bright  colors.  He  had  once  served  another  master ; there 
was  a newer  streak  of  paint  below  him,  displaying  with  incon- 
sistent freshness  the  legend,  By  J.  Mellows. 

My  door  opened  again,  and  J.  Mellows’s  representative  came 
back.  I had  asked  her  what  I could  have  for  dinner,  and  she 
now  returned  with  the  counter-question,  what  would  I like  ? 
As  the  Dolphin  stood  possessed  of  nothing  that  I do  like,  I 
was  fain  to  yield  to  the  suggestion  of  a duck,  which  I don’t  like. 
J.  Mellows’s  representative  was  a mournful  young  woman,  with 
one  eye  susceptible  of  guidance,  and  one  uncontrollable  eye ; 
which  latter,  seeming  to  wander  in  quest  of  stage-coaches,  deep- 
ened the  melancholy  in  which  the  Dolphin  was  steeped. 

This  young  woman  had  but  shut  the  door  on  retiring  again 
when  I bethought  me  of  adding  to  my  order,  the  words,  with 
nice  vegetables.”  Looking  out  at  the  door  to  give  them  emphatic 
utterance,  I found  her  already  in  a state  of  pensive  catalepsy 
in  the  deserted  gallery,  picking  her  teeth  with  a pin. 


TUE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


235 


At  the  Eailway  Station  seven  miles  off,  I had  been  the 
subject  of  wonder  when  I ordered  a fly  in  which  to  come 
here.  And  when  I gave  the  direction  ^^To  the  Dolphin’s 
Head,”  I had  observed  an  ominous  stare  on  the  countenance 
of  the  strong  young  man  in  velveteen,  who  was  the  platform 
servant  of  the  Company.  He  had  also  called  to  my  driver  at 
parting,  All  ri-ight ! Don’t  hang  yourself  when  you  get 
there,  Geo-o-rge  ! ” in  a sarcastic  tone,  for  which  I had  enter- 
tained some  transitory  thoughts  of  reporting  him  to  the 
General  Manager. 

I had  no  business  in  the  town  — I never  have  any  business 
in  any  town  — but  I had  been  caught  by  the  fancy  that  I 
would  come  and  look  at  it  in  its  degeneracy.  My  purpose 
was  fitly  inaugurated  by  the  Dolphin’s  Head,  which  every- 
where expressed  past  coachfulness  and  present  coachlessness. 
Colored  prints  of  coaches,  starting,  arriving,  changing  horses, 
coaches  in  the  sunshine,  coaches  in  the  snow,  coaches  in  the 
wind,  coaches  in  the  mist  and  rain,  coaches  on  the  King’s 
birthday,  coaches  in  all  circumstances  compatible  with  their 
triumph  and  victory,  but  never  in  the  act  of  breaking  down 
or  overturning,  pervaded  the  house.  Of  these  works  of  art, 
some,  framed  and  not  glazed,  had  holes  in  them ; the  varnish 
of  others  had  become  so  brown  and  cracked,  that  they  looked 
like  overdone  pie-crust ; the  designs  of  others  were  almost 
obliterated  by  the  flies  of  many  summers.  Broken  glasses, 
damaged  frames,  lop-sided  hanging,  and  consignment  of  in- 
curable cripples  to  places  of  refuge  in  dark  corners,  attested 
the  desolation  of  the  rest.  The  old  room  on  the  ground  floor 
where  the  passengers  of  the  Highflyer  used  to  dine,  had  noth- 
ing in  it  but  a wretched  show  of  twigs  and  flower-pots  in  the 
broad  window  to  hide  the  nakedness  of  the  land,  and  in  a 
corner  little  Mellows’s  perambulator,  with  even  its  parasol- 
head  turned  despondently  to  the  wall.  The  other  room,  where 
post-horse  company  used  to  wait  while  relays  were  getting 
ready  down  the  yard,  still  held  its  ground,  but  was  as  airless 
as  I conceive  a hearse  to  be : insomuch  that  Mr.  Pitt,  hanging 
high  against  the  partition  (with  spots  on  him  like  port  wine, 
though  it  is  mysterious  how  port  wine  ever  got  squirted  up 
there),  had  good  reason  for  perking  his  nose  and  snifiing.  The 


236 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


stopperless  cruets  on  the  spindle-shanked  sideboard  were  in  a 
miserably  dejected  state : the  anchovy  sauce  having  turned 
blue  some  years  ago,  and  the  cayenne  pepper  (with  a scoop  in 
it  like  a small  model  of  a wooden  leg)  having  turned  solid. 
The  old  fraudulent  candles  which  were  always  being  paid  for 
and  never  used,  were  burnt  out  at  last ; but  their  tall  stilts  of 
candlesticks  still  lingered,  and  still  outraged  the  human  intel- 
lect by  pretending  to  be  silver.  The  mouldy  old  unreformed 
Borough  Member,  with  his  right  hand  buttoned  up  in  the 
breast  of  his  coat,  and  his  back  characteristically  turned  on 
bales  of  petitions  from  his  constituents,  was  there  too ; and 
the  poker  which  never  had  been  among  the  fire-irons,  lest 
post-horse  company  should  overstir  the  fire,  was  not  there,  as 
of  old. 

Pursuing  my  researches  in  the  Dolphin’s  Head,  I found  it 
sorely  shrunken.  When  J.  Mellows  came  into  possession,  he 
had  walled  off  half  the  bar,  w'hich  was  now  a tobacco-shop 
with  its  own  entrance  in  the  yard  — the  once  glorious  yard 
where  the  post-boys,  whip  in  hand  and  always  buttoning 
their  waistcoats  at  the  last  moment,  used  to  come  running 
forth  to  mount  and  away.  A Scientific  Shoeing-Smith  and 
Veterinary  Surgeon,”  had  further  encroached  upon  the  yard; 
and  a grimly  satirical  Jobber,  who  announced  himself  as 
having  to  Let  A neat  one-horse  fly,  and  a one-horse  cart,” 
had  established  his  business,  himself,  and  his  family,  in  a 
part  of  the  extensive  stables.  Another  part  was  lopped  clean 
off  from  the  Dolphin’s  Head,  and  now  comprised  a chapel,  a 
wheelwright’s,  and  a Young  Men’s  Mutual  Improvement  and 
Discussion  Society  (in  a loft) : the  whole  forming  a back 
lane.  Ho  audacious  hand  had  plucked  down  the  vane  from 
the  central  cupola  of  the  stables,  but  it  had  grown  rusty  and 
stuck  at  H — Hil : while  the  score  or  two  of  pigeons  that 
remained  true  to  their  ancestral  traditions  and  the  place,  had 
collected  in  a row  on  the  roof-ridge  of  the  only  outhouse 
retained  by  the  Dolphin,  where  all  the  inside  pigeons  tried 
to  push  the  outside  pigeon  off.  This  I accepted  as  emblem- 
atical of  the  struggle  for  post  and  place  in  railway  times. 

Sauntering  forth  into  the  town,  by  way  of  the  covered  and 
pillared  entrance  to  the  Dolphin’s  Yard,  once  redolent  of 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


237 


soup  and  stable  litter,  now  redolent  of  musty  disuse,  I paced 
the  street.  It  was  a hot  day,  and  the  little  sun-blinds  of  the 
shops  were  all  drawn  down,  and  the  more  enterprising  trades- 
men had  caused  their  Trentices  to  trickle  water  on  the  pave- 
ment appertaining  to  their  frontage.  It  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  shedding  tears  for  the  stage-coaches,  and  drying  their 
ineffectual  pocket-handkerchiefs.  Such  weakness  would  have 
been  excusable;  for  business  was  — as  one  dejected  porkman 
who  kept  a shop  which  refused  to  reciprocate  the  compliment 
by  keeping  him,  informed  me  — bitter  bad.^’  Most  of  the 
harness-makers  and  corn-dealers  were  gone  the  way  of  the 
coaches,  but  it  was  a pleasant  recognition  of  the  eternal  pro- 
cession of  Children  down  that  old  original  steep  Incline,  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow,  that  those  tradesmen  were  mostly  suc- 
ceeded by  venders  of  sweetmeats  and  cheap  toys.  The  oppo- 
sition house  to  the  Dolphin,  once  famous  as  the  New  White 
Hart,  had  long  collapsed.  In  a lit  of  abject  depression,  it  had 
cast  whitewash  on  its  windows,  and  boarded  up  its  front  door, 
and  reduced  itself  to  a side  entrance;  but  even  that  had 
proved  a world  too  wide  for  the  Literary  Institution  which 
had  been  its  last  phase ; for  the  Institution  had  collapsed  too, 
and  of  the  ambitious  letters  of  its  inscription  on  the  White 
Hart’s  front,  all  had  fallen  off  but  these : 

L Y INS  T 

— suggestive  of  Lamentably  Insolvent.  As  to  the  neighboring 
market-place,  it  seemed  to  have  wholly  relinquished  marketing, 
to  the  dealer  in  crockery  whose  pots  and  pans  straggled  half 
across  it,  and  to  the  Cheap  Jack  who  sat  with  folded  arms 
on  the  shafts  of  his  cart,  superciliously  gazing  around ; his 
velveteen  waistcoat,  evidently  harboring  grave  doubts  whether 
it  was  worth  his  while  to  stay  a night  in  such  a place. 

The  church-bells  began  to  ring  as  I left  this  spot,  but  they 
by  no  means  improved  the  case,  for  they  said,  in  a petulant 
way,  and  speaking  with  some  difficulty  in  their  irritation, 
WHAT’s-be-come-of-THE-coach-ES  ! ” Nor  would  they  (I  found 
on  listening)  ever  vary  their  emphasis,  save  in  respect  of 
growing  more  sharp  and  vexed,  but  invariably  went  on, 
WHAx’s-be-come-of-THE-coach-ES  ! — always  beginning  the 


238 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


inquiry  with  an  unpolite  abruptness.  Perhaps  from  their 
elevation  they  saw  the  railway,  and  it  aggravated  them. 

Coming  upon  a coachmakePs  workshop,  I began  to  look 
about  me  with  a revived  spirit,  thinking  that  perchance  I 
might  behold  there  some  remains  of  the  old  times  of  the 
town’s  greatness.  There  was  only  one  man  at  work  — a dry 
man,  grizzled,  and  far  advanced  in  years,  but  tall  and  upright, 
who,  becoming  aware  of  me  looking  on,  straightened  his  back, 
pushed  up  his  spectacles  against  his  brown  paper  cap,  and 
appeared  inclined  to  defy  me.  To  whom  I pacifically  said,  — 

Good-day,  sir  ! ” 

What  ? ” said  he. 

Good-day,  sir.” 

He  seemed  to  consider  about  that,  and  not  to  agree  with 
me.  — ^^Was  you  a-looking  for  anything?”  he  then  asked,  in 
a pointed  manner. 

I was  wondering  whether  there  happened  to  be  any  frag- 
ment of  an  old  stage-coach  here.” 

Is  that  all  ? ” 

That’s  all.” 

^^Ho,  there  ain’t.” 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  say  Oh ! ” and  I said  it.  Not 
another  word  did  the  dry  and  grizzled  man  say,  but  bent  to 
his  work  again.  In  the  coach-making  days,  the  coach-painters 
had  tried  their  brushes  on  a post  beside  him ; and  quite  a 
Calendar  of  departed  glories  was  to  be  read  upon  it,  in  blue 
and  yellow  and  red  and  green,  some  inches  thick.  Presently 
he  looked  up  again. 

You  seem  to  have  a deal  of  time  on  your  hands,”  was  his 
querulous  remark. 

I admitted  the  fact. 

I think  it’s  a pity  you  was  not  brought  up  to  something,” 
said  he. 

I said  I thought  so  too. 

Appearing  to  be  informed  with  an  idea,  he  laid  down  his 
plane  (for  it  was  a plane  he  was  at  work  with),  pushed  up 
his  spectacles  again,  and  came  to  the  door. 

Would  a po-shay  do  for  you  ? ” he  asked. 

I am  not  sure  that  I understand  what  you  mean.” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


239 


Would  a po-shay/’  said  the  coachmaker,  standing  close 
before  me,  and  folding  his  arms  in  the  manner  of  a cross- 
examining  counsel  — would  a po-shay  meet  the  views  you 
have  expressed  ? Yes,  or  no  ? 

Yes/’ 

Then  you  keep  straight  along  down  there  till  you  see  one. 
YouHl  see  one  if  you  go  fur  enough.” 

With  that  he  turned  me  by  the  shoulder  in  the  direction  I 
was  to  take,  and  went  in  and  resumed  his  work  against  a 
background  of  leaves  and  grapes.  For,  although  he  was  a 
soured  man  and  a discontented,  his  workshop  was  that  agree- 
able mixture  of  town  and  country,  street  and  garden,  which 
is  often  to  be  seen  in  a small  English  town. 

I went  the  way  he  had  turned  me,  and  I came  to  the  Beer- 
shop  with  the  sign  of  The  First  and  Last,  and  was  out  of  the 
town  on  the  old  London  road.  I came  to  the  turnpike,  and  I 
found  it,  in  its  silent  way,  eloquent  respecting  the  change  that 
had  fallen  on  the  road.  The  Turnpike-house  was  all  over- 
grown with  ivy ; and  the  Turnpike-keeper,  unable  to  get  a 
living  out  of  the  tolls,  plied  the  trade  of  a cobbler.  Not  only 
that,  but  his  wife  sold  ginger-beer,  and,  in  the  very  window 
of  espial  through  which  the  Toll-takers  of  old  times  used 
with  awe  to  behold  the  grand  London  coaches  coming  on  at  a 
gallop,  exhibited  for  sale  little  barbers’-poles  of  sweetstuff 
in  a sticky  lantern. 

The  political  economy  of  the  master  of  the  turnpike  thus 
expressed  itself. 

How  goes  turnpike  business,  master  ? ” said  I to  him,  as 
he  sat  in  his  little  porch,  repairing  a shoe. 

It  don’t  go  at  all,  master,”  said  he  to  me.  It’s  stopped.” 

That’s  bad,”  said  I. 

Bad  ? ” he  repeated.  And  he  pointed  to  one  of  his  sun- 
burnt dusty  children  who  was  climbing  the  turnpike-gate, 
and  said,  extending  his  open  right  hand  in  remonstrance 
with  Universal  Nature.  Five  on  ’em  ! ” 

“ But  how  to  improve  Turnpike  business  ? ” said  I. 

There’s  a way,  master,”  said  he,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  thought  deeply  on  the  subject. 

I should  like  to  know  it.” 


240 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Lay  a toll  on  everything  as  comes  through  ; lay  a toll 
on  walkers.  Lay  another  toll  on  everything  as  don’t  come 
through;  lay  a toll  on  them  as  stops  at  home.” 

Would  the  last  remedy  be  fair  ? ” 

Fair  ? Them  as  stops  at  home,  could  come  through  if 
they  liked ; couldn’t  they  ? ’’ 

Say  they  could.” 

Toll  ’em.  If  they  don’t  come  through,  it’s  their  lookout. 
Anyways,  — Toll  em  ! ” 

Finding  it  was  as  impossible  to  argue  with  this  financial 
genius  as  if  he  had  been  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and 
consequently  the  right  man  in  the  right  place,  I passed  on 
meekly. 

My  mind  now  began  to  misgive  me  that  the  disappointed 
coachmaker  had  sent  me  on  a wild-goose  errand,  and  that 
there  was  no  post-chaise  in  those  parts.  But  coming  within 
view  of  certain  allotment-gardens  by  the  roadside,  I retracted 
the  suspicion,  and  confessed  that  I had  done  him  an  injustice. 
For,  there  I saw,  surely,  the  poorest  superannuated  post- 
chaise  left  on  earth. 

It  was  a post-chaise  taken  off  its  axletree  and  wheels,  and 
plumped  down  on  the  clayey  soil  among  a ragged  growth  of 
vegetables.  It  was  a post-chaise  not  even  set  straight  upon 
the  ground,  but  tilted  over,  as  if  it  had  fallen  out  of  a balloon. 
It  was  a post-chaise  that  had  been  a long  time  in  those 
decayed  circumstances,  and  against  which  scarlet  beans  were 
trained.  It  was  a post-chaise  patched  and  mended  with  old 
teatrays,  or  with  scraps  of  iron  that  looked  like  them,  and 
boarded  up  as  to  the  windows,  but  having  a knocker  on  the 
off-side  door.  Whether  it  was  a post-chaise  used  as  tool- 
house,  summer-house,  or  dwelling-house,  I could  not  discover, 
for  there  was  nobody  at  home  at  the  post-chaise  when  I 
knocked ; but  it  was  certainly  used  for  something,  and  locked 
up.  In  the  wonder  of  this  discovery,  I walked  round  and 
round  the  post-chaise  many  times,  and  sat  down  by  the  post- 
chaise,  waiting  for  further  elucidation.  ISTone  came.  At  last, 
I made  my  way  back  to  the  old  London  road  by  the  further 
end  of  the  allotment-gardens,  and  consequently  at  a point 
beyond  that  from  which  I had  diverged.  I had  to  scramble 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  24l 

through  a hedge  and  down  a steep  bank,  and  I nearly  came 
down  a-top  of  a little  spare  man  who  sat  breaking  stones  by 
the  roadside. 

He  stayed  his  hammer,  and  said,  regarding  me  mysteriously 
through  his  dark  goggles  of  wire,  — 

Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  youVe  been  trespassing  ? ’’ 

I turned  out  of  the  w^ay,^^  said  I,  in  explanation,  to  look 
at  that  odd  post-chaise.  Do  you  happen  to  know  anything 
about  it  ? 

I know  it  was  many  a year  upon  the  road,’’  said  he. 

So  I supposed.  Do  you  know  to  whom  it  belongs  ? ” 

The  stone-breaker  bent  his  brows  and  goggles  over  his 
heap  of  stones,  as  if  he  were  considering  whether  he  should 
answer  the  question  or  not.  Then,  raising  his  barred  eyes  to 
my  features  as  before,  he  said,  — 

To  me.” 

Being  quite  unprepared  for  the  reply,  I received  it  with  a 
sufficiently  awkward  Indeed  ! Dear  me  ! ” Presently  I 
added,  Do  you  ” — I was  going  to  say  live  there,”  but  it 
seemed  so  absurd  a question,  that  I substituted  ^Hive  near 
here  ? ” 

The  stone-breaker,  who  had  not  broken  a fragment  since 
we  began  to  converse,  then  did  as  follows.  He  raised  himself 
by  poising  his  figure  on  his  hammer,  and  took  his  coat,  on 
which  he  had  been  seated,  over  his  arm.  He  then  backed  to 
an  easier  part  of  the  bank  than  that  by  which  I had  come 
down,  keeping  his  dark  goggles  silently  upon  me  all  the 
time,  and  then  shouldered  his  hammer,  suddenly  turned, 
ascended,  and  was  gone.  His  face  was  so  small,  and  his 
goggles  were  so  large,  that  he  left  me  wholly  uninformed  as 
to  his  countenance ; but  he  left  me  a profound  impression 
that  the  curved  legs  I had  seen  from  behind  as  he  vanished, 
were  the  legs  of  an  old  post-boy.  It  was  not  until  then  that 
I noticed  he  had  been  working  by  a grass-grown  milestone, 
wffiich  looked  like  a tombstone  erected  over  the  grave  of  the 
London  road. 

My  dinner-hour  being  close  at  hand,  I had  no  leisure  to 
pursue  the  goggles  or  the  subject  then,  but  made  my  way 
back  to  the  Dolphin’s  Head.  In  the  gateway  I found  J. 


242 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLEB. 


Mellows,  looking  at  nothing,  and  apparently  experiencing 
that  it  failed  to  raise  his  spirits. 

I don’t  care  for  the  town,”  said  J.  Mellows,  when  I com- 
plimented him  on  the  sanitary  advantages  it  may  or  may  not 
possess ; I wish  I had  never  seen  the  town  ! ” 

You  don’t  belong  to  it,  Mr.  Mellows  ? ” 

Belong  to  it ! ” repeated  Mellows.  If  I didn’t  belong 
to  a better  style  of  town  than  this,  I’d  take  and  drown  myself 
in  a pail.”  It  then  occurred  to  me  that  Mellows,  having  so 
little  to  do,  was  habitually  thrown  back  on  his  internal 
resources  — by  which  I mean  the  Dolphin’s  cellar. 

What  we  want,”  said  Mellows,  pulling  off  his  hat,  and 
making  as  if  he  emptied  it  of  the  last  load  of  Disgust  that 
had  exuded  from  his  brain,  before  he  put  it  on  again  for 
another  load ; what  we  want,  is  a Branch.  The  Petition 
for  the  Branch  Bill  is  in  the  coffee-room.  'W^ould  you  put 
your  name  to  it  ? Every  little  helps.” 

I found  the  document  in  question  stretched  out  fiat  on  the 
coffee-room  table  by  the  aid  of  certain  weights  from  the 
kitchen,  and  I gave  it  the  additional  weight  of  my  uncom- 
mercial signature.  To  the  best  of  my  belief,  I bound  myself 
to  the  modest  statement  that  universal  traffic,  happiness, 
prosperity,  and  civilization,  together  with  unbounded  national 
triumph  in  competition  with  the  foreigner,  would  infallibly 
flow  from  the  Branch. 

Having  achieved  this  constitutional  feat,  I asked  Mr. 
Mellows  if  he  could  grace  my  dinner  with  a pint  of  good 
wine  ? Mr.  Mellows  thus  replied  : — 

If  I couldn’t  give  you  a pint  of  good  wine,  I’d  — there  ! — 
I’d  take  and  drown  myself  in  a pail.  But  I was  deceived 
when  I bought  this  business,  and  the  stock  was  higgledy- 
piggledy,  and  I haven’t  yet  tasted  my  way  quite  through  it 
with  a view  to  sorting  it.  Therefore,  if  you  order  one  kind 
and  get  another,  change  till  it  comes  right.  For  what,”  said 
Mellows,  unloading  his  hat  as  before,  ^^what  would  you  or 
any  gentleman  do,  if  you  ordered  one  kind  of  wine  and  was 
required  to  drink  another  ? Why,  you’d  (and  naturally  and 
properly,  having  the  feelings  of  a gentleman),  you’d  take  and 
drown  yourself  in  a pail ! ” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


243 


XXIII. 

THE  BOILED  BEEF  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  shabbiness  of  our  English  capital,  as  compared  with 
Paris,  Bordeaux,  Frankfort,  Milan,  Geneva  — almost  any  im- 
portant town  on  the  continent  of  Europe  — I find  very  striking 
after  an  absence  of  any  duration  in  foreign  parts.  London  is 
shabby  in  contrast  with  Edinburgh,  with  Aberdeen,  with 
Exeter,  with  Liverpool,  with  a bright  little  town  like  Bury 
St.  Edmunds.  London  is  shabby  in  contrast  with  Xew  York, 
with  Boston,  with  Philadelphia.  In  detail,  one  would  say  it 
can  rarely  fail  to  be  a disappointing  piece  of  shabbiness,  to  a 
stranger  from  any  of  those  places.  There  is  nothing  shabbier 
than  Drury  Lane,  in  Borne  itself.  The  meanness  of  Begent 
Street,  set  against  the  great  line  of  Boulevarts  in  Paris,  is  as 
striking  as  the  abortive  ugliness  of  Trafalgar  Square,  set 
against  the  gallant  beauty  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 
London  is  shabby  by  daylight,  and  shabbier  by  gaslight.  No 
Englishman  knows  what  gaslight  is,  until  he  sees  the  Bue  de 
Bivoli  and  the  Palais  Boyal  after  dark. 

The  mass  of  London  people  are  shabby.  The  absence  of 
distinctive  dress  has,  no  doubt,  something  to  do  with  it.  The 
porters  of  the  Vintners’  Company,  the  draymen,  and  the 
butchers,  are  about  the  only  people  who  wear  distinctive 
dresses ; and  even  these  do  not  wear  them  on  holidays.  We 
have  nothing  which  for  cheapness,  cleanliness,  convenience, 
or  picturesqueness,  can  compare  with  the  belted  blouse.  As 
to  our  women; — next  Easter  or  Whitsuntide,  look  at  the 
bonnets  at  the  British  Museum  or  the  National  Gallery,  and 
think  of  the  pretty  white  French  cap,  the  Spanish  mantilla, 
or  the  Genoese  mezzero. 

Probably  there  are  not  more  second-hand  clothes  sold  in 
London  than  in  Paris,  and  yet  the  mass  of  the  London 


244 


THE  UJSrCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


population  have  a second-hand  look  which  is  not  to  be  de- 
tected on  the  mass  of  the  Parisian  population.  I think  this 
is  mainly  because  a Parisian  workman  does  not  in  the  least 
trouble  himself  about  what  is  worn  by  a Parisian  idler,  but 
dresses  in  the  way  of  his  own  class,  and  for  his  own  comfort. 
In  London,  on  the  contrary,  the  fashions  descend;  and  you 
never  fully  know  how  inconvenient  or  ridiculous  a fashion  is, 
until  you  see  it  in  its  last  descent.  It  was  but  the  other  day, 
on  a race-course,  that  I observed  four  people  in  a barouche 
deriving  great  entertainment  from  the' contemplation  of  four 
people  on  foot.  The  four  people  on  foot  were  two  young  men 
and  two  young  women ; the  four  people  in  the  barouche  were 
two  young  men  and  two  young  women.  The  four  young 
women  were  dressed  in  exactly  the  same  style ; the  four 
young  men  were  dressed  in  exactly  the  same  style.  Yet  the 
two  couples  on  wheels  were  as  much  amused  by  the  two 
couples  on  foot,  as  if  they  were  quite  unconscious  of  having 
themselves  set  those  fashions,  or  of  being  at  that  very  moment 
engaged  in  the  display  of  them. 

Is  it  only  in  the  matter  of  clothes  that  fashion  descends 
here  in  London  — and  consequently  in  England  — and  thence 
shabbiness  arises  ? Let  us  think  a little,  and  be  just.  The 
Black  Country  round  about  Birmingham,  is  a very  black 
country ; but  is  it  quite  as  black  as  it  has  been  lately  painted  ? 
An  appalling  accident  happened  at  the  People’s  Park  near 
Birmingham,  this  last  July,  when  it  was  crowded  with  people 
from  the  Black  Country  — an  appalling  accident  consequent 
on  a shamefully  dangerous  exhibition.  Did  the  shamefully 
dangerous  exhibition  originate  in  the  moral  blackness  of  the 
Black  Country,  and  in  the  Black  People’s  peculiar  love  of 
the  excitement  attendant  on  great  personal  hazard,  which  they 
looked  on  at,  but  in  which  they  did  not  participate  ? Light 
is  much  wanted  in  the  Black  Country.  0 we  are  all  agreed 
on  that.  But,  we  must  not  quite  forget  the  crowds  of  gentle- 
folks who  set  the  shamefully  dangerous  fashion,  either.  We 
must  not  quite  forget  the  enterprising  Directors  of  an  Institu- 
tion vaunting  mighty  educational  pretences,  who  made  the 
low  sensation  as  strong  as  they  possibly  could  make  it,  by 
hanging  the  Blondin  rope  as  high  as  they  possibly  could  hang 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


245 


it.  All  this  must  not  be  eclipsed  in  the  Blackness  of  the 
Black  Country.  The  reserved  seats  high  up  by  the  rope,  the 
cleared  space  below  it,  so  that  no  one  should  be  smashed  but 
the  performer,  the  pretence  of  slipping  and  falling  off,  the 
baskets  for  the  feet  and  the  sack  for  the  head,  the  photographs 
everywhere,  and  the  virtuous  indignation  nowhere  — all  this 
must  not  be  wholly  swallowed  up  in  the  blackness  of  the 
jet-black  country. 

Whatsoever  fashion  is  set  in  England,  is  certain  to  descend. 
This  is  a text  for  a perpetual  sermon  on  care  in  setting  fash- 
ions. When  you  find  a fashion  low  down,  look  back  for  the 
time  (it  will  never  be  far  off)  when  it  was  the  fashion  high 
up.  This  is  the  text  for  a perpetual  sermon  on  social  justice. 
From  imitations  of  Ethiopian  Serenaders,  to  imitations  of 
Prince’s  coats  and  Avaistcoats,  you  will  find  the  original  model 
in  St.  James’s  Parish.  When  the  Serenaders  become  tire- 
some, trace  them  beyond  the  Black  Country  ; when  the  coats 
and  waistcoats  become  insupportable,  refer  them  to  their 
source  in  the  Upper  Toady  Regions. 

Gentlemen’s  clubs  Avere  once  maintained  for  purposes  of 
savage  party  warfare ; workingmen’s  clubs  of  the  same  day 
assumed  the  same  character.  Gentlemen’s  clubs  became 
places  of  quiet  inoffensive  recreation ; Avorkingmen’s  clubs 
began  to  follow  suit.  If  workingmen  have  seemed  rather 
slow  to  appreciate  advantages  of  combination  Avhich  have 
saved  the  pockets  of  gentlemen,  and  enhanced  their  comforts, 
it  is  because  workingmen  could  scarcely,  for  Avant  of  capital, 
originate  such  combinations  without  help ; and  because  help 
has  not  been  separable  from  that  great  impertinence.  Patron- 
age. The  instinctive  revolt  of  his  spirit  against  patronage, 
is  a quality  much  to  be  resjjected  in  the  English  working- 
man. It  is  the  base  of  the  base  of  his  best  qualities.  Nor  is 
it  surprising  that  he  should  be  unduly  suspicious  of  patron- 
age, and  sometimes  resentful  of  it  even  where  it  is  not,  seeing 
what  a flood  of  washy  talk  has  been  let  loose  on  his  devoted 
head,  or  Avith  Avhat  complacent  condescension  the  same  de- 
voted head  has  been  smoothed  and  patted.  It  is  a proof  to 
me  of  his  self-control  that  he  never  strikes  out  pugilistically, 
right  and  left,  when  addressed  as  one  of  My  friends,”  or 


246 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


assembled  friends;’^  that  he  does  not  become  inappeas- 
able,  and  run  amuck  like  a Malay,  whenever  he  sees  a biped 
in  broadcloth  getting  on  a platform  to  talk  to  him ; that  any 
pretence  of  improving  his  mind,  does  not  instantly  drive  him 
out  of  his  mind,  and  cause  him  to  toss  his  obliging  patron 
like  a mad  bull. 

For,  how  often  have  I heard  the  unfortunate  workingman 
lectured,  as  if  he  were  a little  charity  child,  humid  as  to  his 
nasal  development,  strictly  literal  as  to  his  Catechism,  and 
called  by  Providence  to  walk  all  his  days  in  a station  in  life 
represented  on  festive  occasions  by  a mug  of  warm  milk  and 
water  and  a bun ! What  popguns  of  jokes  have  these  ears 
tingled  to  hear  let  off  at  him,  what  asinine  sentiments,  what 
impotent  conclusions,  what  spelling-book  moralities,  what 
adaptations  of  the  orator’s  insufferable  tediousness  to  the 
assumed  level  of  his  understanding ! If  his  sledge-hammers, 
his  spades  and  pick-axes,  his  saws  and  chisels,  his  paint-pots 
and  brushes,  his  forges,  furnaces,  and  engines,  the  horses  that 
he  drove  at  his  work,  and  the  machines  that  drove  him  at  his 
work,  were  all  toys  in  one  little  paper  box,  and  he  the  baby 
who  played  with  them,  he  could  not  have  been  discoursed  to, 
more  impertinently  and  absurdly  than  I have  heard  him  dis- 
coursed to  times  innumerable.  Consequently,  not  being  a 
fool  or  a fawner,  he  has  come  to  acknowledge  his  patronage 
by  virtually  saying,  Let  me  alone.  If  you  understand  me 
no  better  than  that,  sir  and  madam,  let  me  alone.  You  mean 
very  well,  I dare  say,  but  I don’t  like  it,  and  I won’t  come 
here  again  to  have  any  more  of  it.” 

Whatever  is  done  for  the  comfort  and  advancement  of  the 
workingman  must  be  so  far  done  by  himself  as  that  it  is 
maintained  by  himself.  And  there  must  be  in  it  no  touch 
of  condescension,  no  shadow  of  patronage.  In  the  great  work- 
ing districts,  this  truth  is  studied  and  understood.  When  the 
American  civil  war  rendered  it  necessary,  first  in  Glasgow, 
and  afterwards  in  Manchester,  that  the  working-people  should 
be  shown  how  to  avail  themselves  of  the  advantages  derivable 
from  system,  a,nd  from  the  combination  of  numbers,  in  the 
purchase  and  the  cooking  of  their  food,  this  truth  was  above 
all  things  borne  in  mind.  The  quick  consequence  was,  that 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


247 


suspicion  and  reluctance  were  vanquished,  and  that,  the  effort 
resulted  in  an  astonishing  and  a complete  success. 

Such  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  on  a July  morning 
of  this  summer,  as  I walked  towards  Commercial  Street  (not 
Uncommercial  Street),  Whitechapel.  The  Glasgow  and  Man- 
chester system  had  been  lately  set  a-going  there,  by  certain 
gentlemen  who  felt  an  interest  in  its  diffusion,  and  I had 
been  attracted  by  the  following  hand-bill  printed  on  rose- 
colored  paper : — 

SELF-SUPPORTING 

COOKING  DEPOT 

FOR  THE  WORKING  CLASSES, 

Commercial-street,  Whitechapel, 

Where  Accommodation  is  provided  for  Dining  comfortably 


300  persons  at  a time. 

Open  from  7 a.m.  till  7 p.m. 

PEICES. 

All  Articles  of  the  Best  Quality. 

Cup  of  Tea  or  Coffee 

One  Penny 

Bread  and  Butter 

One  Penny 

Bread  and  Cheese 

One  Penny 

Slice  of  Bread . . One  halfpenny  or 

One  Penny 

Boiled  Egj? 

One  Penny 

Ginger  Beer 

One  Penny 

The  above  Articles  always  ready. 

Besides  the  above  may  be  had,  from  12 

to  3 o’clock. 

Bowl  of  Scotch  Broth 

One  Penny 

Bowl  of  Soup 

One  Penny 

Plate  of  Potatoes 

One  Penny 

Plate  of  Minced  Beef 

Twopence 

Plate  of  Cold  Beef 

Twopence 

Plate  of  Cold  Ham 

Twopence 

Plate  of  Plum  Pudding  or  Rice  .... 

One  Penny 

As  the  Economy  of  Cooking  depends  greatly  upon  the 
simplicity  of  the  arrangements  with  which  a great  number  of 


248 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


persons  can  be  served  at  one  time,  the  Upper  Eoom  of  this 
Establishment  will  be  especially  set  apart  for  a 

Public  DIISTNEE  every  Day 
From  12  till  3 o’clock, 

Consisting  of  the  following  Dishes: 

Bowl  of  Broth,  or  Soup, 

Plate  of  Cold  Beef  or  Ham, 

Plate  of  Potatoes, 

Plum  Pudding,  or  Bice. 

FIXED  CHARGE 

THE  DAILY  PAPERS  PROVIDED. 

N.B.  — This  Establishment  is  conducted  on  the  strictest 
business  principles,  with  the  full  intention  of  making  it  self- 
supporting,  so  that  every  one  may  frequent  it  with  a feeling 
of  perfect  independence. 

The  assistance  of  all  frequenting  the  Depot  is  confidently 
expected  in  checking  anything  interfering  with  the  comfort, 
quiet,  and  regularity  of  the  establishment. 

Please  do  not  destroy  this  Hand  Bill,  but  hand  it  to  some 
other  person  whom  it  may  interest. 

This  Self-Supporting  Cooking  Depot  (not  a very  good  name, 
and  one  would  rather  give  it  an  English  one)  had  hired  a 
newly-built  warehouse  that  it  found  to  let ; therefore  it  was 
not  established  in  premises  especially  designed  for  the  pur- 
pose. But,  at  a small  cost  they  were  exceedingly  well  adapted 
to  the  purpose : being  light,  well  ventilated,  clean,  and  cheer- 
ful. They  consisted  of  three  large  rooms.  That  on  the  base- 
ment story  was  the  kitchen ; that  on  the  ground  floor  was  the 
general  dining-room ; that  on  the  floor  above  was  the  Upper 
Room  referred  to  in  the  hand-bill,  where  the  Public  Dinner 
at  fourpence-halfpenny  a head  was  provided  every  day.  The 
cooking  was  done,  with  much  economy  of  space  and  fuel,  by 
American  cooking-stoves,  and  by  young  women  not  previously 
brought  up  as  cooks  ; the  walls  and  pillars  of  the  two  dining- 
rooms were  agreeably  brightened  with  ornamental  colors ; 
the  tables  were  capable  of  accommodating  six  or  eight  persons 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


249 


each ; the  attendants  were  all  young  women,  becomingly  and 
neatly  dressed,  and  dressed  alike.  I think  the  whole  staff 
was  female,  with  the  exception  of  the  steward  or  manager. 

My  first  inquiries  were  directed  to  the  wages  of  this  staff; 
because,  if  any  establishment  claiming  to  be  self-supporting, 
live  upon  the  spoliation  of  anybody  or  anything,  or  eke  out  a 
feeble  existence  by  poor  mouths  and  beggarly  resources  (as 
too  many  so-called  Mechanics’  Institutions  do),  I make  bold 
to  express  my  Uncommercial  opinion  that  it  has  no  business 
to  live,  and  had  better  die.  It  was  made  clear  to  me  by  the 
account-books,  that  every  person  employed  was  properly 
paid.  My  next  inquiries  were  directed  to  the  quality  of  the 
provisions  purchased,  and  to  the  terms  on  which  they  were 
bought.  It  was  made  equally  clear  to  me  that  the  quality 
Avas  the  very  best,  and  that  all  bills  were  paid  weekly.  My 
next  inquiries  were  directed  to  the  balance-sheet  for  the  last 
two  weeks  — only  the  third  and  fourth  of  the  establishment’s 
career.  It  was  made  equally  clear  to  me,  that  after  everything 
bought  was  paid  for,  and  after  each  week  was  charged  with 
its  full  share  of  wages,  rent  and  taxes,  depreciation  of  plant 
in  use,  and  interest  on  capital  at  the  rate  of  four  per  cent  per 
annum,  the  last  week  had  yielded  a profit  of  (in  round  num- 
bers) one  pound  ten  ; and  the  previous  week  a profit  of  six 
pounds  ten.  By  this  time  I felt  that  I had  a healthy  appetite 
for  the  dinners. 

It  had  just  struck  twelve,  and  a quick  succession  of  faces 
had  already  begun  to  appear  at  a little  window  in  the  wall  of 
the  partitioned  space  where  I sat  looking  over  the  books. 
Within  this  little  window,  like  a pay-box  at  a theatre,  a neat 
and  brisk  young  woman  presided  to  take  money  and  issue 
tickets.  Every  one  coming  in  must  take  a ticket.  Either 
the  fourpence-halfpenny  ticket  for  the  upper  room  (the  most 
popular  ticket,  I think),  or  a penny  ticket  for  a bowl  of  soup, 
or  as  many  penny  tickets  as  he  or  she  chose  to  buy.  For 
three  penny  tickets  one  had  quite  a wide  range  of  choice.  A 
plate  of  cold  boiled  beef  and  potatoes ; or  a plate  of  cold  ham 
and  potatoes  ; or  a plate  of  hot  minced  beef  and  potatoes  ; or  a 
bowl  of  soup,  bread  and  cheese,  and  a plate  of  plum  pudding. 
Touching  what  they  should  have,  some  customers  on  taking 


250 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TEAVELLEE. 


their  seats  fell  into  a reverie  — became  mildly  distracted  — 
postponed  decision,  and  said  in  bewilderment,  they  would 
think  of  it.  One  old  man  I noticed  when  I sat  among  the 
tables  in  the  lower  room,  who  was  startled  by  the  bill  of  fare, 
and  sat  contemplating  it  as  if  it  were  something  of  a ghostly 
nature.  The  decision  of  the  boys  was  as  rapid  as  their  execu- 
tion, and  always  included  pudding. 

There  were  several  women  among  the  diners,  and  several 
clerks  and  shopmen.  There  were  carpenters  and  painters 
from  the  neighboring  buildings  under  repair,  and  there  were 
nautical  men,  and  there  were,  as  one  diner  observed  to  me, 
some  of  most  sorts.’’  Some  were  solitary,  some  came  two 
together,  some  dined  in  parties  of  three  or  four,  or  six.  The 
latter  talked  together,  but  assuredly  no  one  was  louder  than 
at  my  club  in  Pall-Mall.  One  young  fellow  whistled  in 
rather  a shrill  manner  while  he  waited  for  his  dinner,  but  I 
was  gratified  to  observe  that  he  did  so  in  evident  defiance  of 
my  Uncommercial  individuality.  Quite  agreeing  with  him, 
on  consideration,  that  I had  no  business  to  be  there,  unless  I 
dined  like  the  rest,  I went  in,”  as  the  phrase  is,  for  four- 
pence-halfpenny. 

The  room  of  the  fourpence-halfpenny  banquet  had,  like  the 
lower  room,  a counter  in  it,  on  which  were  ranged  a great 
number  of  cold  portions  ready  for  distribution.  Behind  this 
counter,  the  fragrant  soup  was  steaming  in  deep  cans,  and  the 
best-cooked  of  potatoes  were  fished  out  of  similar  receptacles. 
Nothing  to  eat  was  touched  with  the  hand.  Every  waitress 
had  her  own  tables  to  attend  to.  As  soon  as  she  saw  a new 
customer  seat  himself  at  one  of  her  tables,  she  took  from  the 
counter  all  his  dinner  — his  soup,  potatoes,  meat,  and  pudding 
— piled  it  up  dexterously  in  her  two  hands,  set  it  before  him, 
and  took  his  ticket.  This  serving  of  the  whole  dinner  at 
once,  had  been  found  greatly  to  simplify  the  business  of 
attendance,  and  was  also  popular  with  the  customers : who 
were  thus  enabled  to  vary  the  meal  by  varying  the  routine  of 
dishes  : beginning  with  soup  to-day,  putting  soup  in  the  middle 
to-morrow,  putting  soup  at  the  end  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  ringing  similar  changes  on  meat  and  pudding.  The 
rapidity  with  which  every  new-comer  got  served,  was  remark- 


THE  UNCOMMERCTAL  TRAVELLER. 


251 


able ; and  the  dexterity  with  which  the  waitresses  (quite  new 
to  the  art  a month  before)  discharged  their  duty,  was  as 
agreeable  to  see,  as  the  neat  smartness  with  which  they  wore 
their  dress  and  had  dressed  their  hair. 

If  I seldom  saw  better  waiting,  so  I certainly  never  ate 
better  meat,  potatoes,  or  pudding.  And  the  soup  was  an 
honest  and  stout  soup,  with  rice  and  barley  in  it,  and  little 
matters  for  the  teeth  to  touch,’’  as  had  been  observed  to  me 
by  my  friend  below  stairs  already  quoted.  The  dinner-service, 
too,  was  neither  conspicuously  hideous  for  High  Art  nor  for 
Low  Art,  but  was  of  a pleasant  and  pure  appearance.  Con- 
cerning the  viands  and  their  cookery,  one  last  remark.  I 
dined  at  my  club  in  Pall-Mall  aforesaid,  a few  days  afterwards, 
for  exactly  twelve  times  the  money,  and  not  half  as  well. 

The  company  thickened  after  one  o’clock  struck,  and  changed 
pretty  quickly.  Although  experience  of  the  place  had  been 
so  recently  attainable,  and  although  there  was  still  consider- 
able curiosity  out  in  the  street  and  about  the  entrance,  the 
general  tone  was  as  good  as  could  be,  and  the  customers  fell 
easily  into  the  ways  of  the  place.  It  was  clear  to  me,  how- 
ever, that  they  were  there  to  have  what  they  paid  for,  and  to 
be  on  an  independent  footing.  To  the  best  of  my  judgment, 
they  might  be  patronized  out  of  the  building  in  a month. 
With  judicious  visiting,  and  by  dint  of  being  questioned, 
read  to,  and  talked  at,  they  might  even  be  got  rid  of  (for  the 
next  quarter  of  a century)  in  half  the  time. 

This  disinterested  and  wise  movement  is  fraught  with  so 
many  wholesome  changes  in  the  lives  of  the  working-people, 
and  with  so  much  good  in  the  way  of  overcoming  that  sus- 
picion  which  our  own  unconscious  impertinence  has  engen- 
dered, that  it  is  scarcely  gracious  to  criticise  details  as  yet ; 
the  rather,  because  it  is  indisputable  that  the  managers  of  the 
Whitechapel  establishment  most  thoroughly  feel  that  they 
are  upon  their  honor  with  the  customers,  as  to  the  minutest 
points  of  administration.  But,  although  the  American  stoves 
cannot  roast,  they  can  surely  boil  one  kind  of  meat  as  well  as 
another,  and  need  not  always  circumscribe  their  boiling  talents 
within  the  limits  of  ham  and  beef.  The  most  enthusiastic 
admirer  of  those  substantials,  would  probably  not  object  to 


252 


THE  UNC03IMEBCIAL  TBAVELLER. 


occasional  inconstancy  in  respect  of  pork  and  mutton:  or, 
especially  in  cold  weather,  to  a little  innocent  trifling  with 
Irish  stews,  meat  pies,  and  toads  in  holes.  Another  drawback 
on  the  Whitechapel  establishment,  is  the  absence  of  beer. 
Regarded  merely  as  a question  of  policy,  it  is  very  impolitic, 
as  having  a tendency  to  send  the  workingmen  to  the  public- 
house,  where  gin  is  reported  to  be  sold.  But,  there  is  a much 
higher  ground  on  which  this  absence  of  beer  is  objectionable. 
It  expresses  distrust  of  the  workingman.  It  is  a fragment  of 
that  old  mantle  of  patronage  in  which  so  many  estimable 
Thugs,  so  darkly  wandering  up  and  down  the  moral  world, 
are  sworn  to  muffle  him.  Good  beer  is  a good  thing  for  him, 
he  says,  and  he  likes  it ; the  Depot  could  give  it  him  good, 
and  he  now  gets  it  bad.  Why  does  the  Depot  not  give  it  him 
good  ? Because  he  would  get  drunk.  Why  does  the  Depot 
not  let  him  have  a pint  with  his  dinner,  which  would  not  make 
him  drunk  ? Because  he  might  have  had  another  pint,  or 
another  two  pints,  before  he  came.  Now,  this  distrust  is  an 
affront,  is  exceedingly  inconsistent  with  the  confidence  the 
managers  express  in  their  hand-bills,  and  is  a timid  stopping- 
short  upon  the  straight  highway.  It  is  unjust  and  unreason- 
able, also.  It  is  unjust,  because  it  punishes  the  sober  man  for 
the  vice  of  the  drunken  man.  It  is  unreasonable,  because 
any  one  at  all  experienced  in  such  things  knows  that  the 
drunken  workman  does  not  get  drunk  where  he  goes  to  eat 
and  drink,  but  where  he  goes  to  drink  — expressly  to  drink. 
To  suppose  that  the  workingman  cannot  state  this  question 
to  himself  quite  as  plainly  as  I state  it  here,  is  to  suppose 
that  he  is  a baby,  and  is  again  to  tell  him  in  the  old  wearisome 
condescending  patronizing  way  that  he  must  be  goody -poody, 
and  do  as  he  is  toldy-poldy,  and  not  be  a manny-panny  or  a 
voter-poter,  but  fold  his  handy-pandys,  and  be  a childy-pildy. 

I found  from  the  accounts  of  the  Whitechapel  Self-Sup- 
porting Cooking  Depot,  that  every  article  sold  in  it,  even  at 
the  prices  I have  quoted,  yields  a certain  small  profit ! Indi- 
vidual speculators  are  of  course  already  in  the  field,  and  are 
of  course  already  appropriating  the  name.  The  classes  for 
whose  benefit  the  real  depots  are  designed,  will  distinguish 
between  the  two  kinds  of  enterprise. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


253 


XXIV. 

CHATHAM  DOCKYARD. 

There  are  some  small  out-of-the-way  landing-places  on  the 
Thames  and  the  Medway,  where  I do  much  of  my  summer 
idling.  Kunning  water  is  favorable  to  day-dreams,  and  a 
strong  tidal  river  is  the  best  of  running  water  for  mine.  I like 
to  watch  the  great  ships  standing  out  to  sea  or  coming  home 
richly  laden,  the  active  little  steam-tugs  confidently  puffing 
with  them  to  and  from  the  sea-horizon,  the  fleet  of  barges 
that  seem  to  have  plucked  their  brown  and  russet  sails  from 
the  ripe  trees  in  the  landscape,  the  heavy  old  colliers,  light  in 
ballast,  floundering  down  before  the  tide,  the  light  screw  barks 
and  schooners  imperiously  holding  a straight  course  while  the 
others  patiently  tack  and  go  about,  the  yachts  with  their  tiny 
hulls  and  great  white  sheets  of  canvas,  the  little  sailing-boats 
bobbing  to  and  fro  on  their  errands  of  pleasure  or  business, 
and  — as  it  is  the  nature  of  little  people  to  do  — making  a 
prodigious  fuss  about  their  small  affairs.  Watching  these 
objects,  I still  am  under  no  obligation  to  think  about  them,  or 
even  so  much  as  to  see  them,  unless  it  perfectly  suits  my 
humor.  As  little  am  I obliged  to  hear  the  plash  and  flop  of 
the  tide,  the  ripple  at  my  feet,  the  clinking  windlass  afar  off, 
or  the  humming  steam-ship  paddles  further  away  yet.  These, 
with  the  creaking  little  jetty  on  which  I sit,  aud  the  gaunt 
high-water  marks  and  low-water  marks  in  the  mud,  and  the 
broken  causeway,  and  the  broken  bank,  and  the  broken  stakes 
and  piles  leaning  forward  as  if  they  were  vain  of  their 
personal  appearance  and  looking  for  their  reflection  in  the 
water,  will  melt  into  any  train  of  fancy.  Equally  adaptable 
to  any  purpose  or  to  none,  are  the  pasturing  sheep  and  kine 
upon  the  marshes,  the  gulls  that  wheel  and  dip  around  me, 
the  crows  (well  out  of  gunshot)  going  home  from  the  rich 
harvest-fields,  the  heron  that  has  been  out  a-fishing  and  looks 


254 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


as  melancholy,  up  there  in  the  sky,  as  if  it  hadn^t  agreed  with 
him.  Everything  within  the  range  of  the  senses  will,  by  the 
aid  of  the  running  water,  lend  itself  to  everything  beyond 
that  range,  and  work  into  a drowsy  whole,  not  unlike  a kind 
of  tune,  but  for  which  there  is  no  exact  definition. 

One  of  these  landing-places  is  near  an  old  fort  (I  can  see 
the  ISTore  Light  from  it  with  my  pocket-glass),  from  which 
fort  mysteriously  emerges  a boy,  to  whom  I am  much  indebted 
for  additions  to  my  scanty  stock  of  knowledge.  He  is  a young 
boy,  with  an  intelligent  face  burnt  to  a dust  color  by  the 
summer  sun,  and  with  crisp  hair  of  the  same  hue.  He  is  a 
boy  in  whom  I have  perceived  nothing  incompatible  with 
habits  of  studious  inquiry  and  meditation,  unless  an  evan- 
escent black  eye  (I  was  delicate  of  inquiring  how  occasioned) 
should  be  so  considered.  To  him  am  I indebted  for  ability 
to  identify  a Custom-house  boat  at  any  distance,  and  for 
acquaintance  with  all  the  forms  and  ceremonies  observed  by 
a homeward-bound  Indiaman  coming  up  the  river,  when  the 
Custom-house  officers  go  aboard  her.  But  for  him,  I might 
never  have  heard  of  the  dumb-ague,’’  respecting  which 
malady  I am  now  learned.  Had  I never  sat  at  his  feet,  I 
might  have  finished  ray  mortal  career  and  never  known  that 
when  I see  a white  horse  on  a barge’s  sail,  that  barge  is  a 
lime-barge.  For  precious  secrets  in  reference  to  beer,  am  I 
likewise  beholden  to  him,  involving  warning  against  the  beer 
of  a certain  establishment,  by  reason  of  its  having  turned 
sour  through  failure  in  point  of  demand : though  my  young 
sage  is  not  of  opinion  that  similar  deterioration  has  befallen 
the  ale.  He  has  also  enlightened  me  touching  the  mushrooms 
of  the  marches,  and  has  gently  reproved  my  ignorance  in 
having  supposed  them  to  be  impregnated  with  salt.  Plis 
manner  of  imparting  information,  is  thoughtful,  and  appro- 
priate to  the  scene.  As  he  reclines  beside  me,  he  pitches 
into  the  river  a little  stone  or  piece  of  grit,  and  then  delivers 
himself  oracularly,  as  though  he  spoke  out  of  the  centre  of 
the  spreading  circle  that  it  makes  in  the  water.  He  never 
improves  my  mind  without  observing  this  formula. 

With  the  wise  boy  — whom  I know  by  no  other  name  than 
the  Spirit  of  the  Fort  — I recently  consorted  on  a breezy  day 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


255 


when  the  river  leaped  about  us  and  was  full  of  life.  I had 
seen  the  sheaved  corn  carrying  in  the  golden  fields  as  I came 
down  to  the  river ; and  the  rosy  farmer,  watching  his  laboring- 
men  in  the  saddle  on  his  cob,  had  told  me  how  he  had  reaped 
his  two  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  long-strawed  corn  last 
week,  and  how  a better  week’s  work  he  had  never  done  in  all 
his  days.  Peace  and  abundance  were  on  the  country-side  in 
beautiful  forms  and  beautiful  colors,  and  the  harvest  seemed 
even  to  be  sailing  out  to  grace  the  never-reaped  sea  in  the 
yellow  laden  barges  that  mellowed  the  distance. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  Spirit  of  the  Fort,  directing 
his  remarks  to  a certain  floating  iron  battery  lately  lying  in 
that  reach  of  the  river,  enriched  my  mind  with  his  opinions 
on  naval  architecture,  and  informed  me  that  he  would  like 
to  be  an  engineer.  I found  him  up  to  everything  that  is  done 
in  the  contracting  line  by  Messrs.  Peto  and  Brassey  — cunning 
in  the  article  of  concrete  — mellow  in  the  matter  of  iron  — 
great  on  the  subject  of  gunnery.  When  he  spoke  of  pile- 
driving and  sluice-making,  he  left  me  not  a leg  to  stand  on, 
and  I can  never  sufficiently  acknowledge  his  forbearance  with 
me  in  my  disabled  state.  While  he  thus  discoursed,  he  several 
times  directed  his  eyes  to  one  distant  quarter  of.  the  landscape, 
and  spoke  with  vague  mysterious  awe  of  ^Hhe  Yard.”  Pon- 
dering his  lessons  after  we  had  parted,  I bethought  me  that 
the  Yard  was  one  of  our  large  public  Dockyards,  and  that  it 
lay  hidden  among  the  crops  down  in  the  dip  behind  the  wind- 
mills, as  if  it  modestly  kept  itself  out  of  view  in  peaceful 
times,  and  sought  to  trouble  no  man.  Taken  with  this  mod- 
esty on  the  part  of  the  Yard,  I resolved  to  improve  the  Yard’s 
acquaintance. 

My  good  opinion  of  the  Yard’s  retiring  character  was  not 
dashed  by  nearer  approach.  It  resounded  with  the  noise  of 
hammers  beating  upon  iron ; and  the  great  sheds  or  slips  under 
which  the  mighty  men-of-war  are  built,  loomed  business-like 
when  contemplated  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  For 
all  that,  however,  the  Yard  made  no  display,  but  kept  itself 
snug  under  hillsides  of  corn-fields,  hop-gardens,  and  orchards ; 
its  great  chimneys  smoking  with  a quiet  — almost  a lazy  — 
air,  like  giants  smoking  tobacco ; and  the  great  Shears  moored 


256 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TEAVELLER. 


off  it,  looking  meekly  and  inoffensively  out  of  proportion, 
like  the  Giraffe  of  the  machinery  creation.  The  store  of 
cannon  on  the  neighboring  gun-wharf,  had  an  innocent  toy- 
like appearance,  and  the  one  red-coated  sentry  on  duty  over 
them  was  a mere  toy  figure,  with  a clock-work  movement. 
As  the  hot  sunlight  sparkled  on  him  he  might  have  passed 
for  the  identical  little  man  who  had  the  little  gun,  and  whose 
bullets  they  were  made  of  lead,  lead,  lead. 

Crossing  the  river  and  landing  at  the  Stairs,  where  a drift 
of  chips  and  weed  had  been  trying  to  land  before  me  and  had 
not  succeeded,  but  had  got  into  a corner  instead,  I found  the 
very  street-posts  to  be  cannon,  and  the  architectural  orna- 
ments to  be  shells.  And  so  I came  to  the  Yard,  which  was 
shut  up  tight  and  strong  with  great  folded  gates,  like  an  enor- 
mous patent  safe.  These  gates  devouring  me,  I became 
digested  into  the  Yard ; and  it  had,  at  first,  a clean-swept 
holiday  air,  as  if  it  had  given  over  work  until  next  war-time. 
Though  indeed  a quantity  of  hemp  for  rope  was  tumbling  out 
of  storehouses,  even  there,  which  would  hardly  be  lying  like 
so  much  hay  on  the  white  stones  if  the  Yard  were  as  placid 
as  it  pretended. 

Ding,  Clash,  Dong,  Bang,  Boom,  Battle,  Clash,  Bang,  Clink, 
Bang,  Dong,  Bang,  Clatter,  bang  bang  BANG ! What  on 
earth  is  this  ! This  is,  or  soon  will  be,  the  Achilles,  iron 
armor-plated  ship.  Twelve  hundred  men  are  working  at  her 
now ; twelve  hundred  men  working  on  stages  over  her  sides, 
over  her  bows,  over  her  stern,  under  her  keel,  between  her 
decks,  down  in  her  hold,  within  her  and  without,  crawling 
and  creeping  into  the  finest  curves  of  her  lines  wherever  it  is 
possible  for  men  to  twist.  Twelve  hundred  hammerers,  meas- 
urers, calkers,  armorers,  forgers,  smiths,  shipwrights ; twelve 
hundred  dingers,  dashers,  dongers,  rattlers,  clinkers,  bangers 
bangers  bangers  ! Yet  all  this  stupendous  uproar  around  the 
rising  Achilles  is  as  nothing  to  the  reverberations  with  which 
the  perfected  Achilles  shall  resound  upon  the  dreadful  day 
when  the  full  work  is  in  hand  for  which  this  is  but  note  of 
preparation  — the  day  when  the  scuppers  that  are  now  fitting 
like  great  dry  thirsty  conduit-pipes,  shall  run  red.  All  these 
busy  figures  between  decks,  dimly  seen  bending  at  their  work 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


257 


in  smoke  and  fire,  are  as  nothing  to  the  figures  that  shall  do 
work  here  of  another  kind  in  smoke  and  fire,  that  day.  These 
steam-worked  engines  alongside,  helping  the  ship  by  travel- 
ling to  and  fro,  and  wafting  tons  of  iron  plates  about,  as 
though  they  were  so  many  leaves  of  trees,  would  be  rent  limb 
from  limb  if  they  stood  by  here  for  a minute  then.  To  think 
that  this  Achilles,  monstrous  compound  of  iron  tank  and 
oaken  chest,  can  ever  swim  or  roll ! To  think  that  any  force 
of  wind  and  wave  could  ever  break  her ! To  think  that  wher- 
ever 1 see  a glowing  red-hot  iron  point  thrust  out  of  her  side 
from  within  — as  I do  now,  there,  and  there,  and  there ! — 
and  two  watching  men  on  a stage  without,  with  bared  arms 
and  sledge-hammers,  strike  at  it  fiercely,  and  repeat  their 
blows  until  it  is  black  and  flat,  I see  a rivet  being  driven 
home,  of  which  there  are  many  in  every  iron  plate,  and  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  in  the  ship ! To  think  that  the  diffi- 
culty I experience  in  appreciating  the  ship’s  size  when  I am 
on  board,  arises  from  her  being  a series  of  iron  tanks  and 
oaken  chests,  so  that  internally  she  is  ever  finishing  and  ever 
beginning,  and  half  of  her  might  be  smashed,  and  yet  the 
remaining  half  suffice  and  be  sound.  Then,  to  go  over  the 
side  again  and  down  among  the  ooze  and  wet  to  the  bottom  of 
the  dock,  in  the  depths  of  the  subterranean  forest  of  dog- 
shores and  stays  that  hold  her  up,  and  to  see  the  immense 
mass  bulging  out  against  the  upper  light,  and  tapering  down 
towards  me,  is,  with  great  pains  and  much  clambering,  to 
arrive  at  an  impossibility  of  realizing  that  this  is  a ship  at  all, 
and  to  become  possessed  by  the  fancy  that  it  is  an  enormous 
immovable  edifice  set  up  in  an  ancient  amphitheatre  (say, 
that  at  Verona),  and  almost  filling  it ! Yet  what  would  even 
these  things  be,  without  the  tributary  workshops  and  the 
mechanical  powers  for  piercing  the  iron  plates  — four  inches 
and  a half  thick  — for  rivets,  shaping  them  under  hydraulic 
pressure  to  the  finest  tapering  turns  of  the  ship’s  lines,  and 
paring  them  away,  with  knives  shaped  like  the  beaks  of 
strong  and  cruel  birds,  to  the  nicest  requirements  of  the 
design ! These  machines  of  tremendous  force,  so  easily 
directed  by  one  attentive  face  and  presiding  hand,  seem  to  me 
to  have  in  them  something  of  the  retiring  character  of  the 


258 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Yard.  Obedient  monster,  please  to  bite  this  mass  of  iron 
through  and  through,  at  equal  distances,  where  these  regular 
chalk-marks  are,  all  round.’’  Monster  looks  at  its  work,  and 
lifting  its  ponderous  head,  replies,  I don’t  particularly  want 
to  do  it ; but  if  it  must  be  done  ! ” — The  solid  metal  wriggles 
out,  hot  from  the  monster’s  crunching  tooth,  and  it  is  done. 

Dutiful  monster,  observe  this  other  mass  of  iron.  It  is 
required  to  be  pared  away,  according  to  this  delicately  lessen- 
ing and  arbitrary  line,  which  please  to  look  at.”  Monster 
(who  has  been  in  a reverie)  brings  down  its  blunt  head,  and, 
much  in  the  manner  of  Doctor  Johnson,  closely  looks  along 
the  line  — very  closely,  being  somewhat  near-sighted. 
don’t  particularly  want  to  do  it ; but  if  it  must  be  done  ! ” — 
Monster  takes  another  near-sighted  look,  takes  aim,  and  the 
tortured  piece  writhes  off,  and  falls,  a hot  tight-twisted  snake, 
among  the  ashes.  The  making  of  the  rivets  is  merely  a pretty 
round  game,  played  by  a man  and  a boy,  who  put  red-hot 
barley  sugar  in  a Pope  Joan  board,  and  immediately  rivets 
fall  out  of  window ; but  the  tone  of  the  great  machines  is  the 
tone  of  the  great  Yard  and  the  great  country:  ^^We  don’t  par- 
ticularly want  to  do  it ; but  if  it  must  be  done  ! ” — 

How  such  a prodigious  mass  as  the  Achilles  can  ever  be 
held  by  such  comparatively  little  anchors  as  those  intended 
for  her  and  lying  near  her  here,  is  a mystery  of  seamanshij) 
which  I will  refer  to  the  wise  boy.  For  my  own  part,  I 
should  as  soon  have  thought  of  tethering  an  elephant  to  a 
tent-peg,  or  the  larger  hippopotamus  in  the  Zoological  Gar- 
dens to  my  shirt-pin.  Yonder  in  the  river,  alongside  a hulk, 
lie  two  of  this  ship’s  hollow  iron  masts.  They  are  large 
enough  for  the  eye,  I find,  and  so  are  all  her  other  appliances. 
I wonder  why  only  her  anchors  look  small. 

I have  no  present  time  to  think  about  it,  for  I am  going  to 
see  the  workshops  where  they  make  all  the  oars  used  in  the 
British  Navy.  A pretty  large  pile  of  building,  I opine,  and  a 
pretty  long  job  ! As  to  the  building,  I am  soon  disappointed, 
because  the  work  is  all  done  in  one  loft.  And  as  to  a long 
job  — what  is  this  ? Two  rather  large  mangles  with  a swarm 
of  butterflies  hovering  over  them  ? What  can  there  be  in  the 
mangles  that  attracts  butterflies  ? 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


259 


Drawing  nearer,  I discern  that  these  are  not  mangles,  but 
intricate  machines,  set  with  knives  and  saws  and  planes,  which 
cut  smooth  and  straight  here,  and  slantwise  there,'  and  now 
cut  such  a depth,  and  now  miss  cutting  altogether,  according 
to  the  predestined  requirements  of  the  pieces  of  wood  that  are 
pushed  on  below  them  : each  of  which  pieces  is  to  be  an  oar, 
and  is  roughly  adapted  to  that  purpose  before  it  takes  its  final 
leave  of  far-off  forests,  and  sails  for  England.  Likewise  I 
discern  that  the  butterflies  are  not  true  butterflies,  but  wooden 
shavings,  which,  being  spirted  up  from  the  wood  by  the  vio- 
lence of  the  machinery,  and  kept  in  rapid  and  not  equal  move- 
ment by  the  impulse  of  its  rotation  on  the  air,  flutter  and 
play,  and  rise  and  fall,  and  conduct  themselves  as  like  butter- 
flies as  heart  could  wish.  Suddenly  the  noise  and  motion 
cease,  and  the  butterflies  drop  dead.  An  oar  has  been  made 
since  I came  in,  wanting  the  shaped  handle.  As  quickly  as  I 
can  follow  it  with  my  eye  and  thought,  the  same  oar  is  carried 
to  a turning-lathe.  A whirl  and  a Nick  ! Handle  made.  Oar 
finished. 

The  exquisite  beauty  and  efficiency  of  this  machinery  need 
no  illustration,  but  happen  to  have  a pointed  illustration 
to-day.  A pair  of  oars  of  unusual  size  chance  to  be  wanted 
for  a special  purpose,  and  they  have  to  be  made  by  hand. 
Side  by  side  with  the  subtle  and  facile  machine,  and  side  by 
side  with  the  fast-growing  pile  of  oars  on  the  floor,  a man 
shapes  out  these  special  oars  with  an  axe.  Attended  by  no 
butterflies,  and  chipping  and  dinting,  by  comparison  as  leisurely 
as  if  he  were  a laboring  Pagan  getting  them  ready  against  his 
decease  at  threescore  and  ten,  to  take  with  him  as  a present 
to  Charon  for  his  boat,  the  man  (aged  about  thirty)  plies  his 
task.  The  machine  would  make  a regulation  oar  while  the 
man  wipes  his  forehead.  The  man  might  be  buried  in  a 
mound  made  of  the  strips  of  thin  broad  wooden  ribbon  torn 
from  the  wood  whirled  into  oars  as  the  minutes  fall  from  the 
clock,  before  he  had  done  a forenoon’s  work  with  his  axe. 

Passing  from  this  wonderful  sight  to  the  Ships  again  — for 
my  heart,  as  to  the  Yard,  is  where  the  ships  are  — I notice 
certain  unfinished  wooden  walls  left  seasoning  on  the  stocks, 
pending  the  solution  of  the  merits  of  the  wood  and  iron  ques- 


260 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


tion,  and  having  an  air  of  biding  their  time  with  surly  confi- 
dence. The  names  of  these  worthies  are  set  up  beside  them, 
together  with  their  capacity  in  guns  ^ — a custom  highly  con- 
ducive to  ease  and  satisfaction  in  social  intercourse,  if  it 
could  be  adapted  to  mankind.  By  a plank  more  gracefully 
pendulous  than  substantial,  I make  bold  to  go  aboard  a trans- 
port ship  (iron  screw)  just  sent  in  from  the  contractor’s  yard 
to  be  inspected  and  passed.  She  is  a very  gratifying  experi- 
ence, in  the  simplicity  and  humanity  of  her  arrangements 
for  troops,  in  her  provision  for  light  and  air  and  cleanliness, 
and  in  her  care  for  women  and  children.  It  occurs  to  me,  as 
I explore  her,  that  I would  require  a handsome  sum  of  money 
to  go  aboard  her,  at  midnight  by  the  Dockyard  bell,  and  stay 
aboard  alone  till  morning ; for  surely  she  must  be  haunted  by 
a crowd  of  ghosts  of  obstinate  old  martinets,  mournfully 
flapping  their  cherubic  epaulets  over  the  changed  times. 
Though  still  we  may  learn  from  the  astounding  ways  and 
means  in  our  Yards  now,  more  highly  than  ever  to  respect 
the  forefathers  who  got  to  sea,  and  fought  the  sea,  and  held 
the  sea,  -without  them.  This  remembrance  putting  me  in  the 
best  of  tempers  with  an  old  hulk,  very  green  as  to  her  copper, 
and  generally  dim  and  patched,  I pull  off  my  hat  to  her. 
Which  salutation  a callow  and  downy-faced  young  officer  of 
Engineers,  going  by  at  the  moment,  perceiving,  appropriates 
— and  to  which  he  is  most  heartily  welcome,  I am  sure. 

Having  been  torn  to  pieces  (in  imagination)  by  the  steam 
circular  saws,  perpendicular  saws,  horizontal  saws,  and  saws  of 
eccentric  action,  I come  to  the  sauntering  part  of  my  expedi- 
tion, and  consequently  to  the  core  of  my  Uncommercial  pur- 
suits. 

Everywhere,  as  I saunter  up  and  down  the  Yard,  I meet 
with  tokens  of  its  quiet  and  retiring  character.  There  is  a 
gravity  upon  its  red  brick  offices  and  houses,  a staid  pretence 
of  having  nothing  worth  mentioning  to  do,  an  avoidance  of 
display,  which  I never  saw  out  of  England.  The  white  stones 
of  the  pavement  present  no  other  trace  of  Achilles  and  his 
twelve  hundred  banging  men  (not  one  of  whom  strikes  an 
attitude)  than  a few  occasional  echoes.  But  for  a whisper  in 
the  air  suggestive  of  sawdust  and  shavings,  the  oar-making 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


261 


and  the  saws  of  many  movements  might  be  miles  away. 
Down  below  here,  is  the  great  reservoir  of  water  where  timber 
is  steeped  in  various  temperatures,  as  a part  of  its  seasoning 
process.  Above  it,  on  a tramroad  supported  by  pillars,  is  a 
Chinese  Enchanter’s  Car,  which  fishes  the  logs  up,  when  suffi- 
ciently steeped,  and  rolls  smoothly  away  with  them  to  stack 
them.  When  I was  a child  (the  Yard  being  then  familiar  to 
me)  I used  to  think  that  I should  like  to  play  at  Chinese  En- 
chanter, and  to  have  that  apparatus  placed  at  my  disposal  for 
the  purpose  by  a beneficent  country.  I still  think  that  I should 
rather  like  to  try  the  effect  of  writing  a book  in  it.  Its  retire- 
ment is  complete,  and  to  go  gliding  to  and  fro  among  the  stacks 
of  timber  would  be  a convenient  kind  of  travelling  in  foreign 
countries  — among  the  forests  of  North  America,  the  sodden 
Honduras  swamps,  the  dark  pine  woods,  the  Norwegian  frosts, 
and  the  tropical  heats,  rainy  seasons,  and  thunder-storms. 
The  costly  store  of  timber  is  stacked  and  stowed  away  in 
sequestered  places,  with  the  pervading  avoidance  of  flourish 
or  effect.  It  makes  as  little  of  itself  as  possible,  and  calls  to 
no  one  Come  and  look  at  me ! ” And  yet  it  is  picked  out 
from  the  trees  of  the  world ; picked  out  for  length,  picked 
out  for  breadth,  picked  out  for  straightness,  picked  out  for 
crookedness,  chosen  with  an  eye  to  every  need  of  ship  and 
boat.  Strangely  twisted  pieces  lie  about,  precious  in  the  sight 
of  shipwrights.  Sauntering  through  these  groves,  I come 
upon  an  open  glade  where  workmen  are  examining  some 
timber  recently  delivered.  Quite  a pastoral  scene,  with  a 
background  of  river  and  windmill ! and  no  more  like  War 
than  the  American  States  are  at  present  like  an  Union. 

Sauntering  among  the  ropemaking,  I am  spun  into  a state 
of  blissful  indolence,  wherein  my  rope  of  life  seems  to  be  so 
untwisted  by  the  process  as  that  I can  see  back  to  very  early 
days  indeed,  when  my  bad  dreams  — they  were  frightful, 
though  my  more  mature  understanding  has  never  made  out 
why  — were  of  an  interminable  sort  of  ropemaking,  with  long 
minute  filaments  for  strands,  which  when  they  were  spun 
home  together  close  to  my  eyes,  occasioned  screaming.  Next, 
I walk  among  the  quiet  lofts  of  stores  — of  sails,  spars,  rigging, 
ships’  boats  — determined  to  believe  that  somebody  in  authority 


262 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


wears  a girdle  and  bends  beneath  the  weight  of  a massive 
bunch  of  keys,  and  that,  when  such  a thing  is  wanted,  he 
comes  telling  his  keys  like  Blue  Beard,  and  opens  such  a door. 
Impassive  as  the  long  lofts  look,  let  the  electric  battery  send 
down  the  word,  and  the  shutters  and  doors  shall  fly  open,  and 
such  a fleet  of  armed  ships,  under  steam  and  under  sail,  shall 
burst  forth  as  will  charge  the  old  Medway  — where  the  merry 
Stuart  let  the  Dutch  come,  while  his  not  so  merry  sailors 
starved  in  the  streets — with  something  worth  looking  at  to 
carry  to  the  sea.  Thus  I idle  round  to  the  Medway  again, 
where  it  is  now  flood  tide  ; and  I find  the  river  evincing  a 
strong  solicitude  to  force  a way  into  the  dry  dock  where 
Achilles  is  waited  on  by  the  twelve  hundred  bangers,  with 
intent  to  bear  the  whole  away  before  they  are  ready. 

To  the  last,  the  Yard  puts  a quiet  face  upon  it ; for  I make 
my  way  to  the  gates  through  a little  quiet  grove  of  trees, 
shading  the  quaintest  of  Dutch  landing-places,  where  the  leaf- 
speckled  shadow  of  a shipwright  just  passing  away  at  the 
further  end  might  be  the  shadow  of  Bussian  Peter  himself. 
So,  the  doors  of  the  great  patent  safe  at  last  close  upon  me, 
and  I take  boat  again : somehow,  thinking  as  the  oars  dip,  of 
braggart  Pistol  and  his  brood,  and  of  the  quiet  monsters  of 
the  Yard,  with  their  ^^We  don’t  particularly  want  to  do  it; 
but  if  it  must  be  done  ! ” — Scrunch. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


263 


XXV. 

IN  THE  FRENCH-FLEMISH  COUNTRY. 

It  is  neither  a bold  nor  a diversified  country/’  said  I to 
myself,  this  country  which  is  three-quarters  Flemish,  and  a 
quarter  French  ; yet  it  has  its  attractions  too.  Though  great 
lines  of  railway  traverse  it,  the  trains  leave  it  behind,  and  go 
puffing  off  to  Paris  and  the  South,  to  Belgium  and  Germany, 
to  the  Northern  Sea-Coast  of  France,  and  to  England,  and 
merely  smoke  it  a little  in  passing.  Then  I don’t  know  it, 
and  that  is  a good  reason  for  being  here ; and  I can’t  pro- 
nounce half  the  long  queer  names  I see  inscribed  over  the 
shops,  and  that  is  another  good  reason  for  being  here,  since 
I surely  ought  to  learn  how.”  In  short,  I was  here,”  and  I 
wanted  an  excuse  for  not  going  away  from  here,  and  I made 
it  to  my  satisfaction,  and  stayed  here. 

What  part  of  my  decision  was  borne  by  Monsieur  P.  Salcy, 
is  of  no  moment,  though  I own  to  encountering  that  gentle- 
man’s name  on  a red  bill  on  the  wall,  before  I made  up  my 
mind.  Monsieur  P.  Salcy,  par  permission  de  M.  le  Maire,” 
had  established  his  theatre  in  the  whitewashed  Hotel  de  Ville, 
on  the  steps  of  which  illustrious  edifice  I stood.  And  Monsieur 
P.  Salcy,  privileged  director  of  such  theatre,  situate  in  the 
first  theatrical  arrondissement  of  the  department  of  the 
North,”  invited  French-Flemish  mankind  to  come  and  par- 
take of  the  intellectual  banquet  provided  by  his  family  of 
dramatic  artists,  fifteen  subjects  in  number.  ^^La  Famille 
P.  Salcy,  composee  d’artistes  dramatiques,  au  nombre  de  15 
sujets.” 

Neither  a bold  nor  a diversified  country,  I say  again,  and 
withal  an  untidy  country,  but  pleasant  enough  to  ride  in, 
when  the  paved  roads  over  the  flats  and  through  the  hollows, 
are  not  too  deep  in  black  mud.  A country  so  sparely 
inhabited,  that  I wonder  where  the  peasants  who  till  and  sow 


264 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


and  reap  the  ground,  can  possibly  dwell,  and  also  by  what 
invisible  balloons  they  are  conveyed  from  their  distant  homes 
into  the  fields  at  sunrise  and  back  again  at  sunset.  The 
occasional  few  poor  cottages  and  farms  in  this  region,  surely 
cannot  afford  shelter  to  the  numbers  necessary  to  the  culti- 
vation, albeit  the  work  is  done  so  very  deliberately,  that  on 
one  long  harvest  day  I have  seen,  in  twelve  miles,  about  twice 
as  many  men  and  women  (all  told)  reaping  and  binding.  Yet 
have  I seen  more  cattle,  more  sheep,  more  pigs,  and  all  in 
better  case,  than  where  there  is  purer  French  spoken,  and 
also  better  ricks  — round  swelling  peg-top  ricks,  well  thatched : 
not  a shapeless  brown  heap,  like  the  toast  of  a Giant’s  toast 
and  water,  pinned  to  the  earth  with  one  of  the  skewers  out  of 
his  kitchen.  A good  custom  they  have  about  here,  likewise, 
of  prolonging  the  sloping  tiled  roof  of  farm  or  cottage,  so 
that  it  overhangs  three  or  four  feet,  carrying  off  the  wet,  and 
making  a good  drying-place  wherein  to  hang  up  herbs,  or 
implements,  or  what  not.  A better  custom  than  the  popular 
one  of  keeping  the  refuse-heap  and  puddle  close  before  the 
house  door:  which,  although  I paint  my  dwelling  never  so 
brightly  blue  (and  it  cannot  be  too  blue  for  me,  hereabouts), 
will  bring  fever  inside  my  door.  Wonderful  poultry  of  the 
French-Flemish  country,  why  take  the  trouble  to  he  poultry  ? 
Why  not  stop  short  at  eggs  in  the  rising  generation,  and  die 
out  and  have  done  with  it  ? Parents  of  chickens  have  I seen 
this  day,  followed  by  their  wretched  young  families,  scratching 
nothing  out  of  the  mud  with  an  air  — tottering  about  on  legs 
so  scraggy  and  weak,  that  the  valiant  word  drumsticks  be- 
comes a mockery  when  applied  to  them,  and  the  crow  of  the 
lord  and  master  has  been  a mere  dejected  case  of  croup. 
Carts  have  I seen,  and  other  agricultural  instruments,  un- 
wieldy, dislocated,  monstrous.  Poplar-trees  by  the  thousand 
fringe  the  fields  and  fringe  the  end  of  the  flat  landscape,  so 
that  I feel,  looking  straight  on  before  me,  as  if,  when  I pass 
the  extremest  fringe  on  the  low  horizon,  I shall  tumble  over 
into  space.  Little  whitewashed  black  holes  of  chapels,  with 
barred  doors  and  Flemish  inscriptions,  abound  at  roadside 
corners,  and  often  they  are  garnished  with  a sheaf  of  wooden 
crosses,  like  children’s  swords ; or,  in  their  default,  some 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  265 

hollow  old  tree  with  a saint  roosting  in  it,  is  similarly  deco- 
rated, or  a pole  with  a very  diminutive  saint  enshrined  aloft 
in  a sort  of  sacred  pigeon-house.  Not  that  we  are  deficient 
in  such  decoration  in  the  town  here,  for,  over  at  the  church 
yonder,  outside  the  building,  is  a scenic  representation  of  the 
Crucifixion,  built  up  with  old  bricks  and  stones,  and  made  out 
with  painted  canvas  and  wooden  figures : the  whole  sur- 
mounting the  dusty  skull  of  some  holy  personage  (perhaps), 
shut  up  behind  a little  ashy  iron  grate,  as  if  it  were  originally 
put  there  to  be  cooked,  and  the  fire  had  long  gone  out.  A 
windmilly  country  this,  though  the  windmills  are  so  damp 
and  rickety,  that  they  nearly  k'nock  themselves  off  their  legs 
at  every  turn  of  their  sails,  and  creak  in  loud  complaint.  A 
weaving  country,  too,  for  in  the  wayside  cottages  the  loom 
goes  wearily  — rattle  and  click,  rattle  and  click  — and,  looking 
in,  I see  the  poor  weaving  peasant,  man  or  woman,  bending 
at  the  work,  while  the  child,  working  too,  turns  a little  hand- 
wheel  put  upon  the  ground  to  suit  its  height.  An  uncon- 
scionable monster,  the  loom  in  a small  dwelling,  asserting 
himself  ungenerously  as  the  bread-winner,  straddling  over 
the  children’s  straw  beds,  cramping  the  family  in  space  and 
air,  and  making  himself  generally  objectionable  and  tyrannical. 
He  is  tributary,  too,  to  ugly  mills  and  factories  and  bleaching- 
grounds,  rising  out  of  the  sluiced  fields  in  an  abrupt  bare 
way,  disdaining,  like  himself,  to  be  ornamental  or  accommo- 
dating. Surrounded  by  these  things,  here  I stood  on  the 
steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  persuaded  to  remain  by  the  P. 
Salcy  Family,  fifteen  dramatic  subjects  strong. 

There  was  a Fair  besides.  The  double  persuasion  being 
irresistible,  and  my  sponge  being  left  behind  at  the  last  Hotel, 
I made  the  tour  of  the  little  town  to  buy  another.  In  the 
small  sunny  shops  — mercers,  opticians,  and  druggist-grocers, 
with  here  and  there  an  emporium  of  religious  images  — the 
gravest  of  old  spectacled  Flemish  husbands  and  wives  sat 
contemplating  one  another  across  bare  counters,  while  the 
wasps,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  military  possession  of  the 
town,  and  to  have  placed  it  under  wasp-martial  law,  executed 
warlike  manoeuvres  in  the  windows.  Other  shops  the  wasps 
had  entirely  to  themselves,  and,  nobody  cared  and  nobody 


266 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


came  when  I beat  with  a five-franc  piece  upon  the  board  of 
custom.  What  I sought  was  no  more  to  be  found  than  if  I 
had  sought  a nugget  of  Californian  gold : so  I went,  sponge- 
less, to  pass  the  evening  with  the  Family  P.  Salcy. 

The  members  of  the  Family  P.  Salcy  were  so  fat  and  so 
like  one  another  — fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  brothers,  uncles, 
and  aunts  — that  I think  the  local  audience  were  much  con- 
fused about  the  plot  of  the  piece  under  representation,  and  to 
the  last  expected  that  everybody  must  turn  out  to  be  the 
long-lost  relative  of  everybody  else.  The  Theatre  was  estab- 
lished on  the  top  story  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  was 
approached  by  a long  bare  staircase,  whereon,  in  an  airy 
situation,  one  of  the  P.  Salcy  Family  — a stout  gentleman 
imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt  — took  the  money.  This  occa- 
sioned the  greatest  excitement  of  the  evening ; for,  no  sooner 
did  the  curtain  rise  on  the  introductory  Vaudeville,  and  reveal 
in  the  person  of  the  young  lover  (singing  a very  short  song 
with  his  eyebrows)  apparently  the  very  same  identical  stout 
gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt,  than  everybody 
rushed  out  of  the  playing-house,  to  ascertain  whether  he  could 
possibly  have  put  on  that  dress-coat,  that  clear  complexion, 
and  those  arched  black  vocal  eyebrows,  in  so  short  a space  of 
time.  It  then  became  manifest  that  this  was  another  stout 
gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt : to  whom,  before 
the  spectators  had  recovered  their  presence  of  mind,  entered 
a third  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt, 
exactly  like  him.  These  two  subjects,’’  making  with  the 
money-taker  three  of  the  announced  fifteen,  fell  into  conver- 
sation touching  a charming  young  widow  : who,  presently 
appearing,  proved  to  be  a stout  lady  altogether  irrepressible 
by  any  means  — quite  a parallel  case  to  the  American  Negro 
— fourth  of  the  fifteen  subjects,  and  sister  of  the  fifth  who 
presided  over  the  check-department.  In  good  time  the  whole 
of  the  fifteen  subjects  were  dramatically  presented,  and  we 
had  the  inevitable  Ma  Mere,  Ma  Mere  ! and  also  the  inevitable 
malediction  d’un  pere,  and  likewise  the  inevitable  Marquis, 
and  also  the  inevitable  provincial  young  man,  weak-minded 
but  faithful,  who  followed  Julie  to  Paris,  and  cried  and 
laughed  and  choked  all  at  once.  The  story  was  wrought  out 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


267 


with  the  help  of  a virtuous  spinning-wheel  in  the  beginning, 
a vicious  set  of  diamonds  in  the  middle,  and  a rheumatic 
blessing  (which  arrived  by  post)  from  Ma  Mere  towards  the 
end ; the  whole  resulting  in  a small  sword  in  the  body  of  one 
of  the  stout  gentlemen  imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt,  fifty 
thousand  francs  per  annum  and  a decoration  to  the  other 
stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt,  and  an 
assurance  from  everybody  to  the  provincial  young  man  that 
if  he  were  not  supremely  happy  — which  he  seemed  to  have 
no  reason  whatever  for  being  — he  ought  to  be.  This  afforded 
him  a final  opportunity  of  crying  and  laughing  and  choking 
all  at  once,  and  sent  the  audience  home  sentimentally 
delighted.  Audience  more  attentive  or  better  behaved  there 
could  not  possibly  be,  though  the  places  of  second  rank  in 
the  Theatre  of  the  Family  P.  Salcy  were  sixpence  each  in 
English  money,  and  the  places  of  first  rank  a shilling.  How 
the  fifteen  subjects  ever  got  so  fat  upon  it,  the  kind  Heavens 
know. 

What  gorgeous  china  figures  of  knights  and  ladies,  gilded 
till  they  gleamed  again,  I might  have  bought  at  the  Fair  for 
the  garniture  of  my  home,  if  I had  been  a French-Flemish 
peasant,  and  had  had  the  money  ! What  shining  coffee-cups 
and  saucers  I might  have  won  at  the  turntables,  if  I had  had 
the  luck  ! .Eavishing  perfumery  also,  and  sweetmeats,  I might 
have  speculated  in,  or  I might  have  fired  for  prizes  at  a multi- 
tude of  little  dolls  in  niches,  and  might  have  hit  the  doll  of 
dolls,  and  won  francs  and  fame.  Or,  being  a French-Flemish 
youth,  I might  have  been  drawn  in  a hand-cart  by  my  com- 
peers, to  tilt  for  municipal  rewards  at  the  water-quintain ; 
which,  unless  I sent  my  lance  clean  through  the  ring,  emptied 
a full  bucket  over  me ; to  fend  off  which,  the  competitors 
wore  grotesque  old  scarecrow  hats.  Or,  being  French-Flemish 
man  or  woman,  boy  or  girl,  I might  have  circled  all  night  on 
my  hobby-horse  in  a stately  cavalcade  of  hobby-horses  four 
abreast,  interspersed  with  triumphal  cars,  going  round  and 
round  and  round  and  round,  we  the  goodly  company  singing 
a ceaseless  chorus  to  the  music  of  the  barrel-organ,  drum,  and 
cymbals.  On  the  whole,  not  more  monotonous  than  the  Eing 
in  Hyde  Park,  London,  and  much  merrier ; for  when  do  the 


268 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


circling  company  sing  chorus,  there,  to  the  barrel-organ,  when 
do  the  ladies  embrace  their  horses  round  the  neck  with  both 
arms,  when  do  the  gentlemen  fan  the  ladies  with  the  tails  of 
their  gallant  steeds  ? On  all  these  revolving  delights,  and  on 
their  own  especial  lamps  and  Chinese  lanterns  revolving  with 
them,  the  thoughtful  weaver-face  brightens,  and  the  Hotel  de 
Ville  sheds  an  illuminated  line  of  gaslight : while  above  it,  the 
Eagle  of  France,  gas-outlined  and  apparently  afflicted  with 
the  prevailing  infirmities  that  have  lighted  on  the  poultry,  is 
in  a very  undecided  state  of  policy,  and  as  a bird  moulting. 
Flags  fiutter  all  around.  Such  is  the  prevailing  gayety  that 
the  keeper  of  the  prison  sits  on  the  stone  steps  outside  the 
prison  door,  to  have  a look  at  the  world  that  is  not  locked  up ; 
while  that  agreeable  retreat,  the  wine-shop  opposite  to  the 
prison  in  the  prison-alley  (its  sign  La  Tranquillite,  because  of 
its  charming  situation),  resounds  with  the  voices  of  the  shep- 
herds and  shepherdesses  who  resort  there  this  festive  night. 
And  it  reminds  me  that  only  this  afternoon,  I saw  a shepherd 
in  trouble,  tending  this  way,  over  the  jagged  stones  of  a neigh- 
boring street.  A magnificent  sight  it  was,  to  behold  him  in 
his  blouse,  a feeble  little  jog-trot  rustic,  swept  along  by  the 
wind  of  two  immense  gendarmes,  in  cocked-hats  for  which 
the  street  was  hardly  wide  enough,  each  carrying  a bundle  of 
stolen  property  that  would  not  have  held  his  shoulder-knot, 
and  clanking  a sabre  that  dwarfed  the  prisoner. 

Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I present  to  you  at  this  Fair,  as  a 
mark  of  my  confidence  in  the  people  of  this  so-renowned  town, 
and  as  an  act  of  homage  to  their  good  sense  and  fine  taste,  the 
Ventriloquist,  the  Ventriloquist ! Further,  Messieurs  et  Mes- 
dames, I present  to  you  the  Face-Maker,  the  Physiognomist, 
the  great  Changer  of  Countenances,  who  transforms  the  features 
that  Heaven  has  bestowed  upon  him  into  an  endless  succession 
of  surprising  and  extraordinary  visages,  comprehending.  Mes- 
sieurs et  Mesdames,  all  the  contortions,  energetic  and  expres- 
sive, of  which  the  human  face  is  capable,  and  all  the  passions 
of  the  human  heart,  as  Love,  Jealousy,  Revenge,  Hatred, 
Avarice,  Despair  ! Hi  hi.  Ho  ho,  Lu  lu.  Come  in  ! ’’  To  this 
effect,  with  an  occasional  smite  upon  a sonorous  kind  of  tam- 
bourine — bestowed  with  a will,  as  if  it  represented  the  people 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


269 


who  won’t  come  in  — holds  forth  a man  of  lofty  and  severe 
demeanor ; a man  in  stately  uniform,  gloomy  with  the  knowl- 
edge he  possesses  of  the  inner  secrets  of  the  booth.  Come 
in,  come  in  ! Your  opportunity  presents  itself  to-night ; to- 
morrow it  will  be  gone  forever.  To-morrow  morning  by  the 
Express  Train  the  railroad  will  reclaim  the  Ventriloquist  and 
the  Face-Maker ! Algeria  will  reclaim  the  Ventriloquist  and 
the  Face-Maker  ! Yes  ! For  the  honor  of  their  country  they 
have  accepted  propositions  of  a magnitude  incredible,  to  appear 
in  Algeria.  See  them  for  the  last  time  before  their  departure  ! 
We  go  to  commence  on  the  instant.  Hi  hi ! Ho  ho  ! Lu  lu ! 
Come  in ! Take  the  money  that  now  ascends,  Madame ; but 
after  that,  no  more,  for  we  commence  ! Come  in  ! ” 

Nevertheless,  the  eyes  both  of  the  gloomy  Speaker  and  of 
Madame  receiving  sous  in  a muslin  bower,  survey  the  crowd 
pretty  sharply  after  the  ascending  money  has  ascended,  to 
detect  any  lingering  sous  at  the  turning-point.  ^^Come  in, 
come  in  ! Is  there  any  more  money,  Madame,  on  the  point  of 
ascending  ? If  so,  we  wait  for  it.  If  not,  we  commence  ! ’’ 
The  orator  looks  back  over  his  shoulder  to  say  it,  lashing  the 
spectators  with  the  conviction  that  he  beholds  through  the 
folds  of  the  drapery  into  which  he  is  about  to  plunge,  the  Ven- 
triloquist and  the  Face-Maker.  Several  sous  burst  out  of 
pockets,  and  ascend.  Come  up  then.  Messieurs  ! ” exclaims 
Madame  in  a shrill  voice,  and  beckoning  with  a bejewelled 
finger.  Come  up  ! This  presses.  Monsieur  has  commanded 
that  they  commence  ! ” Monsieur  dives  into  his  Interior,  and 
the  last  half-dozen  of  us  follow.  His  Interior  is  comparatively 
severe  ; his  Exterior  also.  A true  Temple  of  Art  needs  noth- 
ing but  seats,  drapery,  a small  table  with  two  moderator  lamps 
hanging  over  it,  and  an  ornamental  looking-glass  let  into  the 
wall.  Monsieur  in  uniform  gets  behind  the  table  and  surveys 
us  with  disdain,  his  forehead  becoming  diabolically  intellectual 
under  the  moderators.  Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I present  to 
you  the  Ventriloquist.  He  will  commence  with  the  celebrated 
Experience  of  the  bee  in  the  window.  The  bee,  apparently 
the  veritable  bee  of  Nature,  will  hover  in  the  window  and 
about  the  room.  He  will  be  with  difficulty  caught  in  the  hand 
of  Monsieur  the  Ventriloquist — he  will  escape  — he  will  again 


270 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


hover  — at  length  he  will  be  recaptured  by  Monsieur  the  Ven- 
triloquist, and  will  be  with  difficulty  put  into  a bottle.  Achieve 
then,  Monsieur  ! ” Here  the  proprietor  is  replaced  behind  the 
table  by  the  Ventriloquist,  who  is  thin  and  sallow,  and  of  a 
weakly  aspect.  While  the  bee  is  in  progress.  Monsieur  the 
Proprietor  sits  apart  on  a stool,  immersed  in  dark  and  remote 
thought.  The  moment  the  bee  is  bottled,  he  stalks  forward, 
eyes  us  gloomily  as  we  applaud,  and  then  announces,  sternly 
waving  his  hand : The  magnificent  Experience  of  the  child 
with  the  whooping-cough  The  child  disposed  of,  he  starts 
up  as  before.  The  superb  and  extraordinary  Experience  of 
the  dialogue  between  Monsieur  Tatambour  in  his  dining-room, 
and  his  domestic,  Jerome,  in  the  cellar;  concluding  with  the 
songsters  of  the  grove,  and  the  Concert  of  domestic  Farmyard 
animals.’^  All  this  done,  and  well  done.  Monsieur  the  Ven- 
triloquist withdraws,  and  Monsieur  the  Face-Maker  bursts  in, 
as  if  his  retiring-room  were  a mile  long  instead  of  a yard.  A 
corpulent  little  man  in  a large  white  waistcoat,  with  a comic 
countenance,  and  with  a wig  in  his  hand.  Irreverent  disposi- 
tion to  laugh,  instantly  checked  by  the  tremendous  gravity  of 
the  Face-Maker,  who  intimates  in  his  bow  that  if  we  expect 
that  sort  of  thing  we  are  mistaken.  A very  little  shaving- 
glass  with  a leg  behind  it  is  handed  in,  and  placed  on  the 
table  before  the  Face-Maker.  Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  with 
no  other  assistance  than  this  mirror  and  this  wig,  I shall  have 
the  honor  of  showing  you  a thousand  characters.’^  As  a prep- 
aration, the  Face-Maker  with  both  hands  gouges  himself,  and 
turns  his  mouth  inside  out.  He  then  becomes  frightfully 
grave  again,  and  says  to  the  Proprietor,  I am  ready  ! ” Pro- 
prietor stalks  forth  from  baleful  reverie,  and  announces  The 
Young  Conscript!”  Face-Maker  claps  his  wig  on,  hind  side 
before,  looks  in  the  glass,  and  appears  above  it  as  a conscript 
so  very  imbecile,  and  squinting  so  extremely  hard,  that  I 
should  think  the  State  would  never  get  any  good  of  him. 
Thunders  of  applause.  Face-Maker  dips  behind  the  looking- 
glass,  brings  his  own  hair  forward,  is  himself  again,  is  awfully 
grave.  ^^A  distinguished  inhabitant  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain.”  Face-Maker  dips,  rises,  is  supposed  to  be  aged, 
blear-eyed,  toothless,  slightly  palsied,  supernaturally  polite, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


271 


evidently  of  noble  birth.  The  oldest  member  of  the  Corps 
of  Invalides  on  the  fete-day  of  his  master.’^  Face-Maker  dips, 
rises,  wears  the  wig  on  one  side,  has  become  the  feeblest  mili- 
tary bore  in  existence,  and  (it  is  clear)  would  lie  frightfully 
about  his  past  achievements,  if  he  were  not  confined  to  panto- 
mime. ^^The  Miser  Face-Maker  dips,  rises,  clutches  a 
bag,  and  every  hair  of  the  wig  is  on  end  to  express  that  he 
lives  in  continual  dread  of  thieves.  ^^The  Genius  of  France 
Face-Maker  dips,  rises,  wig  pushed  back  and  smoothed  flat, 
little  cocked-hat  (artfully  concealed  till  now)  put  a-top  of  it, 
Face-MakeFs  white  waistcoat  much  advanced,  Face-Maker’s 
left  hand  in  bosom  of  white  waistcoat,  Face-Maker’s  right 
hand  behind  his  back.  Thunders.  This  is  the  first  of  three 
positions  of  the  Genius  of  France.  In  the  second  position, 
the  Face-Maker  takes  snuff ; in  the  third,  rolls  up  his  right 
hand,  and  surveys  illimitable  armies  through  that  pocket-glass. 
The  Face-Maker  then,  by  putting  out  his  tongue,  and  wearing 
the  wig  nohow  in  particular,  becomes  the  Village  Idiot.  The 
most  remarkable  feature  in  the  whole  of  his  ingenious  per- 
formance, is,  that  whatever  he  does  to  disguise  himself,  has  the 
effect  of  rendering  him  rather  more  like  himself  than  he  was 
at  first. 

There  were  peep-shows  in  this  Fair,  and  I had  the  pleasure 
of  recognizing  several  fields  of  glory  with  which  I became 
well  acquainted  a year  or  two  ago  as  Crimean  battles,  now 
doing  duty  as  Mexican  victories.  The  change  was  neatly 
effected  by  some  extra  smoking  of  the  Eussians,  and  by 
permitting  the  camp  followers  free  range  in  the  foreground 
to  despoil  the  enemy  of  their  uniforms.  As  no  British  troops 
had  ever  happened  to  be  within  sight  when  the  artist  took  his 
original  sketches,  it  followed  fortunately  that  none  were  in  the 
way  now. 

The  Fair  wound  up  with  a ball.  Eespecting  the  particular 
night  of  the  week  on  which  the  ball  took  place,  I decline  to 
commit  myself ; merely  mentioning  that  it  was  held  in  a 
stable-yard  so  very  close  to  the  railway,  that  it  is  a mercy  the 
locomotive  did  not  set  fire  to  it.  (In  Scotland,  I suppose  it 
would  have  done  so.)  There,  in  a tent  prettily  decorated 
with  looking-glasses  and  a myriad  of  toy  flags,  the  people 


272 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


danced  all  night.  It  was  not  an  expensive  recreation,  the 
price  of  a double  ticket  for  a cavalier  and  lady  being  one  and 
threepence  in  English  money,  and  even  of  that  small  sum  five- 
pence  was  reclaimable  for  consommation : which  word  I 
venture  to  translate  into  refreshments  of  no  greater  strength, 
at  the  strongest,  than  ordinary  wine  made  hot,  with  sugar  and 
lemon  in  it.  It  was  a ball  of  great  good  humor  and  of  great 
enjoyment,  though  very  many  of  the  dancers  must  have  been 
as  poor  as  the  fifteen  subjects  of  the  P.  Salcy  Family. 

In  short,  not  having  taken  my  own  pet  national  pint  pot 
with  me  to  this  Fair,  I was  very  well  satisfied  with  the 
measure  of  simple  enjoyment  that  it  poured  into  the  dull 
French-Flemish  country  life.  How  dull  that  is,  I had  an 
opportunity  of  considering  when  the  Fair  was  over  — when 
the  tricolored  flags  were  withdrawn  from  the  windows  of  the 
houses  on  the  Place  where  the  Fair  was  held — when  the 
windows  were  close  shut,  apparently  until  next  Fair-time  — 
when  the  Hotel  de  Ville  had  cut  off  its  gas  and  put  away  its 
eagle  — when  the  two  paviors,  whom  I take  to  form  the  entire 
paving  population  of  the  town,  were  ramming  down  the  stones 
which  had  been  pulled  up  for  the  erection  of  decorative  poles 
— when  the  jailer  had  slammed  his  gate,  and  sulkily  locked 
himself  in  with  his  charges.  But  then,  as  I paced  the  ring  which 
marked  the  track  of  the  departed  hobby-horses  on  the  market- 
place, pondering  in  my  mind  how  long  some  hobby-horses  do 
leave  their  tracks  in  public  ways,  and  how  difficult  they  are  to 
erase,  my  eyes  were  greeted  with  a goodly  sight.  I beheld 
four  male  personages  thoughtfully  pacing  the  Place  together, 
in  the  sunlight,  evidently  not  belonging  to  the  town,  and  hav- 
ing upon  them  a certain  loose  cosmopolitan  air  of  not  belonging 
to  any  town.  One  was  clad  in  a suit  of  white  canvas,  another 
in  a cap  and  blouse,  the  third  in  an  old  military  frock,  the 
fourth  in  a shapeless  dress  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  made 
out  of  old  umbrellas.  All  wore  dust-colored  shoes.  My  heart 
beat  high ; for,  in  those  four  male  personages,  although  com- 
plexionless and  eyebrowless,  I beheld  four  subjects  of  the 
Family  P.  Salcy.  Blue-bearded  though  they  were,  and  bereft 
of  the  youthful  smoothness  of  cheek  which  is  imparted  by 
what  is  termed  in  Albion  a Whitechapel  shave  (and  which 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


273 


is,  in  fact,  whitening,  judiciously  applied  to  the  jaws  with 
the  palm  of  the  hand),  I recognized  them.  As  I stood  admir- 
ing, there  emerged  from  the  yard  of  a lowly  Cabaret,  the 
excellent  Ma  Mm*e,  Ma  Mere,  with  the  words,  The  soup  is 
served ; words  which  so  elated  the  subject  in  the  canvas  suit, 
that  when  they  all  ran  in  to  partake,  he  went  last,  dancing 
with  his  hands  stuck  angularly  into  the  pockets  of  his  canvas 
trousers,  after  the  Pierrot  manner.  Glancing  down  the  Yard, 
the  last  I saw  of  him  was,  that  he  looked  in  through  a window 
(at  the  soup,  no  doubt)  on  one  leg. 

Full  of  this  pleasure,  I shortly  afterwards  departed  from 
the  town,  little  dreaming  of  an  addition  to  my  good  fortune. 
But  more  was  in  reserve.  I went  by  a train  which  was  heavy 
with  third-class  carriages,  full  of  young  fellows  (well  guarded) 
who  had  drawn  unlucky  numbers  in  the  last  conscription,  and 
were  on  their  way  to  a famous  French  garrison  town  where 
much  of  the  raw  military  material  is  worked  up  into  soldiery. 
At  the  station  they  had  been  sitting  about,  in  their  thread- 
bare homespun  blue  garments,  with  their  poor  little  bundles 
under  their  arms,  covered  with  dust  and  clay,  and  the  various 
soils  of  France ; sad  enough  at  heart,  most  of  them,  but  put- 
ting a good  face  upon  it,  and  slapping  their  breasts  and  sing- 
ing choruses  on  the  smallest  provocation;  the  gayer  spirits 
shouldering  half-loaves  of  black  bread  speared  upon  their 
walking-sticks.  As  we  went  along,  they  were  audible  at  every 
station,  chorusing  wildly  out  of  tune,  and  feigning  the  highest 
hilarity.  After  a while,  however,  they  began  to  leave  off 
singing,  and  to  laugh  naturally,  while  at  intervals  there 
mingled  with  their  laughter  the  barking  of  a dog.  Now,  I 
had  to  alight  short  of  their  destination,  and,  as  that  stoppage 
of  the  train  was  attended  with  a quantity  of  horn-blowing, 
bell-ringing,  and  proclamation  of  what  Messieurs  les  Voya- 
geurs  were  to  do,  and  were  not  to  do,  in  order  to  reach  their 
respective  destinations,  I had  ample  leisure  to  go  forward  on 
the  platform  to  take  a parting  look  at  my  recruits,  whose 
heads  were  all  out  at  window,  and  who  were  laughing  like 
delighted  children.  Then  I perceived  that  a large  poodle 
with  a pink  nose,  who  had  been  their  travelling  companion 
and  the  cause  of  their  mirth,  stood  on  his  hind-legs  presenting 


274 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


arms  on  the  extreme  verge  of  the  platform,  ready  to  salute 
them  as  the  train  went  off.  This  poodle  wore  a military 
shako  (it  is  unnecessary  to  add,  very  much  on  one  side  over 
one  eye),  a little  military  coat,  and  the  regulation  white 
gaiters.  He  was  armed  with  a little  musket  and  a little 
sword-bayonet,  and  he  stood  presenting  arms  in  perfect  atti- 
tude, with  his  unobscured  eye  on  his  master  or  superior  officer, 
who  stood  by  him.  So  admirable  was  his  discipline,  that,  when 
the  train  moved,  and  he  was  greeted  with  the  parting  cheers 
of  the  recruits,  and  also  with  a shower  of  centimes,  several  of 
which  struck  his  shako,  and  had  a tendency  to  discompose 
him,  he  remained  stanch  on  his  post,  until  the  train  was 
gone.  He  then  resigned  his  arms  to  his  officer,  took  off  his 
shako  by  rubbing  his  paw  over  it,  dropped  on  four  legs,  bring- 
ing his  uniform  coat  into  the  absurdest  relations  with  the 
overraching  skies,  and  ran  about  the  platform  in  his  white 
gaiters,  wagging  his  tail  to  an  exceeding  great  extent.  It 
struck  me  that  there  was  more  waggery  than  this  in  the 
poodle,  and  that  he  knew  that  the  recruits  would  neither  get 
through  their  exercises,  nor  get  rid  of  their  uniforms,  as 
easily  as  he ; revolving  which  in  my  thoughts,  and  seeking  in 
my  pockets  some  small  money  to  bestow  upon  him,  I casually 
directed  my  eyes  to  the  face  of  his  superior  officer,  and  in 
him  beheld  the  Face-Maker!  Though  it  was  not  the  way  to 
Algeria,  but  quite  the  reverse,  the  military  poodle^s  Colonel 
was  the  Face-Maker  in  a dark  blouse,  Avith  a small  bundle 
dangling  over  his  shoulder  at  the  end  of  an  umbrella,  and 
taking  a pipe  from  his  breast  to  smoke  as  he  and  the  poodle 
went  their  mysterious  way. 


TH£:  UJSfCOMMIJECIAL  TUAVELLER, 


275 


XXVI. 

MEDICINE-MEN  OF  CIVILIZATION. 

My  voyages  (in  paper  boats)  among  savages  often  yield 
me  matter  for  reflection  at  home.  It  is  curious  to  trace  the 
savage  in  the  civilized  man,  and  to  detect  the  hold  of  some 
savage  customs  on  conditions  of  society  rather  boastful  of 
being  high  above  them. 

I wonder,  is  the  Medicine  Man  of  the  Xorth  American 
Indians  never  to  be  got  rid  of,  out  of  the  Xorth  American 
country  ? He  comes  into  my  Wigwam  on  all  manner  of 
occasions,  and  with  the  absurdest  Medicine.’’  I always  find 
it  extremely  difiicult,  and  I often  find  it  simply  impossible, 
to  keep  him  out  of  my  Wigwam.  For  his  legal  Medicine” 
he  sticks  upon  his  head  the  hair  of  quadrupeds,  and  plasters 
the  same  with  fat,  and  dirty  white  powder,  and  talks  a gibber- 
ish quite  unknown  to  the  men  and  squaws  of  his  tribe.  For 
his  religious  Medicine  ” he  puts  on  puffy  white  sleeves,  little 
black  aprons,  large  black  waistcoats  of  a peculiar  cut,  collar- 
less coats  with  Medicine  buttonholes,  Medicine  stockings  and 
gaiters  and  shoes,  and  tops  the  whole  with  a highly  grotesque 
Medicinal  hat.  In  one  respect,  to  be  sure,  I am  quite  free 
from  him.  On  occasions  when  the  Medicine  Men  in  general, 
together  with  a large  number  of  the  miscellaneous  inhabitants 
of  his  village  both  male  and  female,  are  presented  to  the 
principal  Chief,  his  native  Medicine  ” is  a comical  mixture 
of  old  odds  and  ends  (hired  of  traders)  and  new  things  in 
antiquated  shapes,  and  pieces  of  red  cloth  (of  which  he  is 
particularly  fond),  and  white  and  red  and  blue  paint  for  the 
face.  The  irrationality  of  this  particular  Medicine  culminates 
in  a mock  battle-rush,  from  which  many  of  the  squaws  are 
borne  out,  much  dilapidated.  I need  not  observe  how  unlike 
this  is  to  a Drawing-Room  at  St.  James’s  Palace. 


276 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


The  African  magician  I find  it  very  difi&cult  to  exclude  from 
my  Wigwam  too.  This  creature  takes  cases  of  death  and 
mourning  under  his  supervision,  and  will  frequently  impover- 
ish a whole  family  by  his  preposterous  enchantments.  He 
is  a great  eater  and  drinker,  and  always  conceals  a rejoicing 
stomach  under  a grieving  exterior.  His  charms  consist  of  an 
infinite  quantity  of  worthless  scraps,  for  which  he  charges 
very  high.  He  impresses  on  the  poor  bereaved  natives,  that 
the  more  of  his  followers  they  pay  to  exhibit  such  scraps  on 
their  persons  for  an  hour  or  two  (though  they  never  saw  the 
deceased  in  their  lives,  and  are  put  in  high  spirits  by  his 
decease),  the  more  honorably  and  piously  they  grieve  for  the 
dead.  The  poor  people,  submitting  themselves  to  this  conjurer, 
an  expensive  procession  is  formed,  in  which  bits  of  sticks, 
feathers  of  birds,  and  a quantity  of  other  unmeaning  objects 
besmeared  with  black  paint,  are  carried  in  a certain  ghastly 
order  of  which  no  one  understands  the  meaning,  if  it  ever  had 
any,  to  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  are  then  brought  back 
again. 

In  the  Tonga  Islands  everything  is  supposed  to  have  a 
soul,  so  that  when  a hatchet  is  irreparably  broken,  they  say, 
^^His  immortal  part  has  departed;  he  is  gone  to  the  happy 
hunting-plains.”  This  belief  leads  to  the  logical  sequence 
that  when  a man  is  buried,  some  of  his  eating  and  drinking 
vessels,  and  some  of  his  warlike  implements,  must  be  broken 
and  buried  with  him.  Superstitious  and  wrong,  but  surely  a 
more  respectable  superstition  than  the  hire  of  antic  scraps  for 
a show  that  has  no  meaning  based  on  any  sincere  belief. 

Let  me  halt  on  my  Uncommercial  road,  to  throw  a passing 
glance  on  some  funeral  solemnities  that  I have  seen  where 
North  American  Indians,  African  Magicians,  and  Tonga 
Islanders,  are  supposed  not  to  be. 

Once,  I dwelt  in  an  Italian  city,  where  there  dwelt  with  me 
for  awhile,  an  Englishman  of  an  amiable  nature,  great  enthu- 
siasm, and  no  discretion.  This  friend  discovered  a desolate 
stranger,  mourning  over  the  unexpected  death  of  one  very 
dear  to  him,  in  a solitary  cottage  among  the  vineyards  of  an 
outlying  village.  The  circumstances  of  the  bereavement  were 
unusually  distressing ; and  the  survivor,  new  to  the  peasants 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


277 


and  the  country,  sorely  needed  help,,  being  alone  with  the 
remains.  With  some  difficulty,  but  with  the  strong  influence 
of  a purpose  at  once  gentle,  disinterested,  and  determined,  my 
friend  — Mr.  Kindheart  — obtained  access  to  the  mourner, 
and  undertook  to  arrange  the  burial. 

There  was  a small  Protestant  cemetery  near  the  city  walls, 
and  as  Mr.  Kindheart  came  back  to  me,  he  turned  into  it  and 
chose  the  spot.  He  was  always  highly  flushed  when  render- 
ing a service  unaided,  and  I knew  that  to  make  him  happy  I 
must  keep  aloof  from  his  ministration.  But  when  at  dinner 
he  warmed  with  the  good  action  of  the  day,  and  conceived  the 
brilliant  idea  of  comforting  the  mourner  with  ^^an  English 
funeral,’^  I ventured  to  intimate  that  I thought  that  institu- 
tion, which  was  not  absolutely  sublime  at  home,  might  prove 
a failure  in  Italian  hands.  However,  Mr.  Kindheart  was  so 
enraptured  with  his  conception,  that  he  presently  wrote  down 
into  the  town  requesting  the  attendance  with  to-morrow’s 
earliest  light  of  a certain  little  upholsterer.  This  upholsterer 
was  famous  for  speaking  the  unintelligible  local  dialect  (his 
own)  in  a far  more  unintelligible  manner  than  any  other  man 
alive. 

When  from  my  bath  next  morning  I overheard  Mr.  Kind- 
heart  and  the  upholsterer  in  conference  on  the  top  of  an  echo- 
ing staircase ; and  when  I overheard  Mr.  Kindheart  rendering 
English  Undertaking  phrases  into  very  choice  Italian,  and 
the  upholsterer  replying  in  the  unknown  Tongues ; and 
when  I furthermore  remembered  that  the  local  funerals  had 
no  resemblance  to  English  funerals ; I became  in  my  secret 
bosom  apprehensive.  But  Mr.  Kindheart  informed  me  at 
breakfast  that  measures  had  been  taken  to  insure  a signal 
success. 

As  the  funeral  was  to  take  place  at  sunset,  and  as  I knew 
to  which  of  the  city  gates  it  must  tend,  I went  out  at  that 
gate  as  the  sun  descended,  and  walked  along  the  dusty,  dusty, 
road.  I had  not  walked  far,  when  I encountered  this  proces- 
sion : — 

1.  Mr.  Kindheart,  much  abashed,  on  an  immense  gray 
horse. 

2.  A bright  yellow  coach  and  pair,  driven  by  a coachman 


278 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


in  bright  red  velvet  knee-breeches  and  waistcoat.  (This  was 
the  established  local  idea  of  State.)  Both  coach  doors  kept 
open  by  the  coffin,  which  was  on  its  side  within,  and  sticking 
out  at  each. 

3.  Behind  the  coach,  the  mourner,  for  whom  the  coach  was 
intended,  walking  in  the  dust. 

4.  Concealed  behind  a roadside  well  for  the  irrigation  of  a 
garden,  the  unintelligible  Upholsterer,  admiring. 

It  matters  little  now.  Coaches  of  all  colors  are  alike  to 
poor  Kindheart,  and  he  rests  far  North  of  the  little  cemetery 
with  the  cypress-trees,  by  the  city  walls  where  the  Mediter- 
ranean is  so  beautiful. 

My  first  funeral,  a fair  representative  funeral  after  its  kind, 
was  that  of  the  husband  of  a married  servant,  once  my  nurse. 
She  married  for  money.  Sally  Flanders,  after  a year  or  two 
of  matrimony,  became  the  relict  of  Flanders,  a small  master 
builder ; and  either  she  or  Flanders  had  done  me  the  honor 
to  express  a desire  that  I should  follow.’^  I may  have  been 
seven  or  eight  years  old ; — young  enough,  certainly,  to  feel 
rather  alarmed  by  the  expression,  as  not  knowing  where  the 
invitation  was  held  to  terminate,  and  how  far  I was  expected 
to  follow  the  deceased  Flanders.  Consent  being  given  by  the 
heads  of  houses,  I was  jobbed  up  into  what  was  pronounced 
at  home  decent  mourning  (comprehending  somebody  else’s 
shirt,  unless  my  memory  deceives  me),  and  was  admonished 
that  if,  when  the  funeral  was  in  action,  I put  my  hands  in 
my  pockets,  or  took  my  eyes  out  of  my  pocket-handkerchief, 
I was  personally  lost,  and  my  family  disgraced.  On  the 
eventful  day,  having  tried  to  get  myself  into  a disastrous 
frame  of  mind,  and  having  formed  a very  poor  opinion  of 
myself  because  I couldn’t  cry,  I repaired  to  Sally’s.  Sally 
was  an  excellent  creature,  and  had  been  a good  wife  to  old 
Flanders,  but  the  moment  I saw  her  I knew  that  she  was  not 
in  her  own  real  natural  state.  She  formed  a sort  of  Coat  of 
Arms,  grouped  with  a smelling-bottle,  a handkerchief,  an 
orange,  a bottle  of  vinegar,  Flanders’s  sister,  her  own  sister, 
Flanders’s  brother’s  wife,  and  two  neighboring  gossips  — all 
in  mourning,  and  all  ready  to  hold  her  whenever  she  fainted. 
At  sight  of  poor  little  me  she  became  much  agitated  (agitating 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


279 


me  much  more),  and  having  exclaimed,  O here’s  dear  Master 
Uncommercial!”  became  hysterical,  and  swooned  as  if  I had 
been  the  death  of  her.  An  affecting  scene  followed,  during 
which  I was  handed  about  and  poked  at  her  by  various  peo- 
ple, as  if  I were  the  bottle  of  salts.  Eeviving  a little,  she 
embraced  me,  said,  You  knew  him  well,  dear  Master 
Uncommercial,  and  he  knew  you!”  and  fainted  again : which, 
as  the  rest  of  the  Coat  of  Arms  soothingly  said,  done  her 
credit.”  Now,  I knew  that  she  needn’t  have  fainted  unless 
she  liked,  and  that  she  wouldn’t  have  fainted  unless  it  had 
been  expected  of  her,  quite  as  well  as  I know  it  at  this  day. 
It  made  me  feel  uncomfortable  and  hypocritical  besides.  I 
was  not  sure  but  that  it  might  be  manners  in  me  to  faint 
next,  and  I resolved  to  keep  my  eye  on  Flanders’s  uncle,  and 
if  I saw  any  signs  of  his  going  in  that  direction,  to  go  too, 
politely.  But  Flanders’s  uncle  (who  was  a weak  little  old 
retail  grocer)  had  only  one  idea,  which  was  that  we  all 
wanted  tea ; and  he  handed  us  cups  of  tea  all  round,  inces- 
santly, whether  we  refused  or  not.  There  was  a young 
nephew  of  Flanders’s  present,  to  whom  Flanders,  it  was 
rumored,  had  left  nineteen  guineas.  He  drank  all  the  tea 
that  was  offered  him,  this  nephew — amounting,  I should  say, 
to  several  quarts  — and  ate  as  much  plum-cake  as  he  could 
possibly  come  by ; but  he  felt  it  to  be  decent  mourning  that 
he  should  now  and  then  stop  in  the  midst  of  a lump  of  cake, 
and  appear  to  forget  that  his  mouth  was  full,  in  the  contem- 
plation of  his  uncle’s  memory.  I felt  all  this  to  be  the  fault 
of  the  undertaker,  who  was  handing  us  gloves  on  a tea-tray 
as  if  they  were  muffins,  and  tying  us  into  cloaks  (mine  had  to 
be  pinned  up  all  round,  it  was  so  long  for  me),  because  I 
knew  that  he  was  making  game.  So,  when  we  got  out  into 
the  streets,  and  I constantly  disarranged  the  procession  by 
tumbling  on  the  people  before  me  because  my  handkerchief 
blinded  my  eyes,  and  tripping  up  the  people  behind  me 
because  my  cloak  was  so  long,  I felt  that  we  were  all  making 
game.  I was  truly  sorry  for  Flanders,  but  I knew  that  it 
was  no  reason  why  we  should  be  trying  (the  women  with 
their  heads  in  hoods  like  coal-scuttles  with  the  black  side  out- 
ward) to  keep  step  with  a man  in  a scarf,  carrying  a thing 


280 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


like  a mourning  spy-glass,  whicli  he  was  going  to  open  pres- 
ently and  sweep  the  horizon  with.  I knew  that  we  should 
not  all  have  been  speaking  in  one  particular  key-note  struck 
by  the  undertaker,  if  we  had  not  been  making  game.  Even 
in  our  faces  we  were  every  one  of  us  as  like  the  undertaker 
as  if  we  had  been  his  own  family,  and  I perceived  that  this 
could  not  have  happened  unless  we  had  been  making  game. 
When  we  returned  to  Sally’s,  it  was  all  of  a piece.  The  con- 
tinued impossibility  of  getting  on  without  plum-cake ; the 
ceremonious  apparition  of  a pair  of  decanters  containing  port 
and  sherry  and  cork ; Sally’s  sister  at  the  tea-table,  clinking 
the  best  crockery  and  shaking  her  head  mournfully  every 
time  she  looked  down  into  the  teapot,  as  if  it  were  the  tomb ; 
the  Coat  of  Arms  again,  and  Sally  as  before ; lastly,  the 
words  of  consolation  administered  to  Sally  when  it  was  con- 
sidered right  that  she  should  come  round  nicely  : ” which 
were,  that  the  deceased  had  had  as  com-for-ta-ble  a f u-ne-ral 
as  comfortable  could  be  ! ” 

Other  funerals  have  I seen  with  grown-up  eyes,  since  that 
day,  of  which  the  burden  has  been  the  same  childish  burden. 
Making  game.  Eeal  affliction,  real  grief  and  solemnity,  have 
been  outraged,  and  the  funeral  has  been  performed.”  The 
waste  for  which  the  funeral  customs  of  many  tribes  of 
savages  are  conspicuous,  has  attended  these  civilized  ob- 
sequies ; and  once,  and  twice,  have  I wished  in  my  soul  that 
if  the  waste  must  be,  they  would  let  the  undertaker  bury  the 
money,  and  let  me  bury  the  friend. 

In  Erance,  upon  the  whole,  these  ceremonies  are  more 
sensibly  regulated,  because  they  are  upon  the  whole  less 
expensively  regulated.  I cannot  say  that  I have  ever  been 
much  edified  by  the  custom  of  tying  a bib  and  apron  on  the 
front  of  the  house  of  mourning,  or  that  I would  myself 
particularly  care  to  be  driven  to  my  grave  in  a nodding  and 
bobbing  car,  like  an  infirm  four-post  bedstead,  by  an  inky 
fellow-creature  in  a cocked-hat.  But  it  may  be  that  I am 
constitutionally  insensible  to  the  virtues  of  a cocked-hat.  In 
provincial  France,  the  solemnities  are  sufficiently  hideous,  but 
are  few  and  cheap.  The  friends  and  townsmen  of  the  de- 
parted, in  their  own  dresses  and  not  masquerading  under  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


281 


auspices  of  the  African  Conjurer,  surround  the  hand-bier,  and 
often  carry  it.  It  is  not  considered  indispensable  to  stifle  the 
bearers,  or  even  to  elevate  the  burden  on  their  shoulders  ; 
consequently  it  is  easily  taken  up,  and  easily  set  down,  and  is 
carried  through  the  streets  without  the  distressing  floundering 
and  shuffling  that  we  see  at  home.  A dirty  priest  or  two,  and 
a dirtier  acolyte  or  two,  do  not  lend  any  especial  grace  to 
the  proceedings ; and  I regard  with  personal  animosity  the 
bassoon,  which  is  blown  at  intervals  by  the  big-legged  priest 
(it  is  always  a big-legged  priest  who  blows  the  bassoon),  when 
his  fellows  combine  in  a lugubrious  stalwart  drawl.  But 
there  is  far  less  of  the  Conjurer  and  the  Medicine  Man  in  the 
business  than  under  like  circumstances  here.  The  grim  coaches 
that  we  reserve  expressly  for  such  shows,  are  non-existent ; 
if  the  cemetery  be  far  out  of  the  town,  the  coaches  that  are 
hired  for  other  purposes  of  life  are  hired  for  this  purpose ; 
and  although  the  honest  vehicles  make  no  pretence  of  being 
overcome,  I have  never  noticed  that  the  people  in  them  were 
the  worse  for  it.  In  Italy,  the  hooded  members  of  Confra- 
ternities who  attend  on  funerals,  are  dismal  and  ugly  to  look 
upon ; but  the  services  they  render  are  at  least  voluntarily 
rendered,  and  impoverish  no  one,  and  cost  nothing.  Why 
should  high  civilization  and  low  savagery  ever  come  together 
on  the  point  of  making  them  a wantonly  wasteful  and  con- 
temptible set  of  forms  ? 

Once  I lost  a friend  by  death,  who  had  been  troubled  in  his 
time  by  the  Medicine  Man  and  the  Conjurer,  and  upon  whose 
limited  resources  there  were  abundant  claims.  The  Conjurer 
assured  me  that  I must  positively  follow,’’  and  both  he  and 
the  Medicine  Man  entertained  no  doubt  that  I must  go  in  a 
black  carriage,  and  must  wear  fittings.”  I objected  to 
fittings  as  having  nothing  to  do  with  my  friendship,  and  I 
objected  to  the  black  carriage  as  being  in  more  senses  than 
one  a job.  So,  it  came  into  my  mind  to  try  what  would 
happen  if  I quietly  walked,  in  my  own  way,  from  my  own 
house  to  my  friend’s  burial-place,  and  stood  beside  his  open 
grave  in  my  own  dress  and  person,  reverently  listening  to  the 
best  of  Services.  It  satisfied  my  mind,  I found,  quite  as  well 
as  if  I had  been  disguised  in  a hired  hatband  and  scarf  both 


282 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


trailing  to  my  very  heels,  and  as  if  I had  cost  the  orphan 
children,  in  their  greatest  need,  ten  guineas. 

Can  any  one  who  ever  beheld  the  stupendous  absurdities 
attendant  on  A message  from  the  Lords  ’’  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  turn  upon  the  Medicine  Man  of  the  poor  Indians  ? 
Has  he  any  Medicine  in  that  dried  skin  pouch  of  his,  so 
supremely  ludicrous  as  the  two  Masters  in  Chancery  holding 
up  their  black  petticoats  and  butting  their  ridiculous  wigs  at 
Mr.  Speaker  ? Yet  there  are  authorities  innumerable  to  tell 
me  — as  there  are  authorities  innumerable  among  the  Indians 
to  tell  them  — that  the  nonsense  is  indispensable,  and  that  its 
abrogation  would  involve  most  awful  consequences.  What 
would  any  rational  creature  who  had  never  heard  of  judicial 
and  forensic  fittings,’^  think  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas 
on  the  first  day  of  Term  ? Or  with  what  an  awakened  sense 
of  humor  would  Livijstgstone^s  account  of  a similar  scene  be 
perused,  if  the  fur  and  red  cloth  and  goats’  hair  and  horse  hair 
and  powdered  chalk  and  black  patches  on  the  top  of  the  head, 
were  all  at  Tala  Mungongo  instead  of  Westminster  ? That 
model  missionary  and  good  brave  man  found  at  least  one  tribe 
of  blacks  with  a very  strong  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  insomuch 
that  although  an  amiable  and  docile  people,  they  never  could 
see  the  Missionaries  dispose  of  their  legs  in  the  attitude  of 
kneeling,  or  hear  them  begin  a hymn  in  chorus,  without 
bursting  into  roars  of  irrepressible  laughter.  Ib  is  much  to 
be  hoped  that  no  member  of  this  facetious  tribe  may  ever 
find  his  way  to  England  and  get  committed  for  contempt  of 
Court. 

In  the  Tonga  Islands  already  mentioned,  there  are  a set  of 
personages  called  Mataboos  — or  some  such  name  — who  are 
the  masters  of  all  the  public  ceremonies,  and  who  know  the 
exact  place  in  which  every  chief  must  sit  down  when  a 
solemn  public  meeting  takes  place : a meeting  which  bears  a 
family  resemblance  to  our  own  Public  Dinner,  in  respect  of 
its  being  a main  part  of  the  proceedings  that  every  gentleman 
present  is  required  to  drink  something  nasty.  These  Mataboos 
are  a privileged  order,  so  important  is  their  avocation,  and 
they  make  the  most  of  their  high  functions.  A long  way  out 
of  the  Tonga  Islands,  indeed,  rather  near  the  British  Islands, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


283 


was  there  no  calling  in  of  the  Mataboos  the  other  day  to 
settle  an  earth-convulsing  question  of  precedence ; and  was 
there  no  weighty  opinion  delivered  on  the  part  of  the  Mataboos 
which,  being  interpreted  to  that  unlucky  tribe  of  blacks  with 
the  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  would  infallibly  set  the  whole 
population  screaming  with  laughter  ? 

My  sense  of  justice  demands  the  admission,  however,  that 
this  is  not  quite  a one-sided  question.  If  we  submit  ourselves 
meekly  to  the  Medicine  Man  and  the  Conjurer,  and  are  not 
exalted  by  it,  the  savages  may  retort  upon  us  that  we  act 
more  unwisely  than  they  in  other  matters  wherein  we  fail  to 
imitate  them.  It  is  a widely  diffused  custom  among  savage 
tribes,  when  they  meet  to  discuss  any  affair  of  public  impor- 
tance, to  sit  up  all  night  making  a horrible  noise,  dancing, 
blowing  shells,  and  (in  cases  where  they  are  familiar  with 
fire-arms)  flying  out  into  open  places  and  letting  off  guns.  It 
is  questionable  whether  our  legislative  assemblies  might  not 
take  a hint  from  this.  A shell  is  not  a melodious  wind-instru- 
ment, and  it  is  monotonous ; but  it  is  as  musical  as,  and  not 
more  monotonous  than,  my  Honorable  friend’s  own  trumpet, 
or  the  trumpet  that  he  blows  so  hard  for  the  Minister.  The 
uselessness  of  arguing  with  any  supporter  of  a Government 
or  of  an  Opposition,  is  well  known.  Try  dancing.  It  is  a 
better  exercise,  and  has  the  unspeakable  recommendation  that 
it  couldn’t  be  reported.  The  honorable  and  savage  member 
who  has  a loaded  gun,  and  has  grown  impatient  of  debate, 
plunges  out  of  doors,  fires  in  the  air,  and  returns  calm  and 
silent  to  the  Palaver.  Let  the  honorable  and  civilized  mem- 
ber similarly  charged  with  a speech,  dart  into  the  cloisters  of 
Westminster  Abbey  in  the  silence  of  night,  let  his  speech 
off,  and  come  back  harmless.  It  is  not  at  first  sight  a very 
rational  custom  to  paint  a broad  blue  stripe  across  one’s  nose 
and  both  cheeks,  and  a broad  red  stripe  from  the  forehead  to 
the  chin,  to  attach  a few  pounds  of  wood  to  one’s  under  lip, 
to  stick  fish-bones  in  one’s  ears  and  a brass  curtain-ring  in 
one’s  nose,  and  to  rub  one’s  body  all  over  with  rancid  oil,  as  a 
preliminary  to  entering  on  business.  But  this  is  a question 
of  taste  and  ceremony,  and  so  is  the  Windsor  Uniform.  The 
manner  of  entering  on  the  business  itself  is  another  question. 


284 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


A council  of  six  hundred  savage  gentlemen  entirely  inde- 
pendent of  tailors,  sitting  on  their  hams  in  a ring,  smoking, 
and  occasionally  grunting,  seem  to  me,  according  to  the 
experience  I have  gathered  in  my  voyages  and  travels,  some- 
how to  do  what  they  come  together  for ; whereas  that  is  not 
at  all  the  general  experience  of  a council  of  six  hundred 
civilized  gentlemen  very  dependent  on  tailors  and  sitting  on 
mechanical  contrivances.  It  is  better  that  an  Assembly  should 
do  its  utmost  to  envelop  itself  in  smoke,  than  that  it  should 
direct  its  endeavors  to  enveloping  the  public  in  smoke ; and  I 
would  rather  it  buried  half  a hundred  hatchets  than  buried 
one  subject  demanding  attention. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


285 


XXVTI. 

titbull’s  alms-houses. 

By  the  side  of  most  railways  out  of  London,  one  may  see 
Alms-Houses  and  Betreats  (generally  with  a Wing  or  a 
Centre  wanting,  and  ambitious  of  being  much  bigger  than 
they  are),  some  of  which  are  newly -founded  Institutions,  and 
some  old  establishments  transplanted.  There  is  a tendency 
in  these  pieces  of  architecture  to  shoot  upward  unexpectedly, 
like  Jack^s  bean-stalk,  and  to  be  ornate  in  spires  of  Chapels 
and  lanterns  of  Halls,  which  might  lead  to  the  embellishment 
of  the  air  with  many  castles  of  questionable  beauty  but  for  the 
restraining  consideration  of  expense.  However,  the  managers, 
being  always  of  a sanguine  temperament,  comfort  themselves 
with  plans  and  elevations  of  Loomings  in  the  future,  and  are 
influenced  in  the  present  by  philanthropy  towards  the  railway 
passengers.  For,  the  question  how  prosperous  and  promising 
the  buildings  can  be  made  to  look  in  their  eyes,  usually 
supersedes  the  lesser  question  how  they  can  be  turned  to  the 
best  account  for  the  inmates. 

Why  none  of  the  people  who  reside  in  these  places  ever 
look  out  of  window,  or  take  an  airing  in  the  piece  of  ground 
which  is  going  to  be  a garden  by  and  by,  is  one  of  the  won- 
ders I have  added  to  my  always  lengthening  list  of  the 
wonders  of  the  world.  I have  got  it  into  my  mind  that  they 
live  in  a state  of  chronic  injury  and  resentment,  and  on  that 
account  refuse  to  decorate  the  building  with  a human  interest. 
As  I have  known  legatees  deeply  injured  by  a bequest  of  five 
hundred  pounds  because  it  was  not  five  thousand,  and  as  I 
was  once  acquainted  with  a pensioner  on  the  Public  to  the 
extent  of  two  hundred  a year,  who  perpetually  anathematized 
his  Country  because  he  was  not  in  the  receipt  of  four,  having 
no  claim  whatever  to  sixpence : so  perhaps  it  usually  happens, 
within  certain  limits,  that  to  get  a little  help  is  to  get  a notion 


286 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


of  being  defrauded  of  more.  How  do  they  pass  their  lives 
in  this  beautiful  and  peaceful  place  ? ’’  was  the  subject  of  my 
speculation  with  a visitor  who  once  accompanied  me  to  a 
charming  rustic  retreat  for  old  men  and  women:  a quaint 
ancient  foundation  in  a pleasant  English  county,  behind  a 
picturesque  church  and  among  rich  old  convent  gardens. 
There  were  but  some  dozen  or  so  of  houses,  and  we  agreed 
that  we  would  talk  with  the  inhabitants,  as  they  sat  in  their 
groined  rooms  between  the  light  of  their  fires  and  the  light 
shining  in  at  their  latticed  windows,  and  would  find  out. 
They  passed  their  lives  in  considering  themselves  mulcted  of 
certain  ounces  of  tea  by  a deaf  old  steward  who  lived  among 
them  in  the  quadrangle.  There  was  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  any  such  ounces  of  tea  had  ever  been  in  existence,  or 
that  the  old  steward  so  much  as  knew  what  was  the  matter ; 
— he  passed  his  life  in  considering  himself  periodically  de- 
frauded of  a birch-broom  by  the  beadle. 

But  it  is  neither  to  old  Alms-Houses  in  the  country,  nor  to 
new  Alms-Houses  by  the  railroad,  that  these  present  Uncom- 
mercial notes  relate.  They  refer  back  to  journeys  made 
among  those  commonplace  smoky-fronted  London  Alms- 
Houses,  with  a little  paved  courtyard  in  front  enclosed  by 
iron  railings,  which  have  got  snowed  up,  as  it  were,  by  bricks 
and  mortar;  which  were  once  in  a suburb,  but  are  now  in 
the  densely  populated  town;  gaps  in  the  busy  life  around 
them,  parentheses  in  the  close  and  blotted  texts  of  the 
streets. 

Sometimes,  these  Alms-Houses  belong  to  a Company  or 
Society.  Sometimes,  they  were  established  by  individuals, 
and  are  maintained  out  of  private  funds  bequeathed  in  per- 
petuity long  ago.  My  favorite  among  them  is  TitbulPs, 
which  establishment  is  a picture  of  many.  Of  Titbull  I know 
no  more  than  that  he  deceased  in  1723,  that  his  Christian 
name  was  Sampson,  and  his  social  designation  Esquire,  and 
that  he  founded  these  Alms-Houses  as  Dwellings  for  Nine 
Poor  Women  and  Six  Poor  Men  by  his  Will  and  Testament. 
I should  not  know  even  this  much,  but  for  its  being  inscribed 
on  a grim  stone  very  difficult  to  read,  let  into  the  front  of  the 
centre  house  of  Titbull’s  Alms-Houses,  and  which  stone  is 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLEB. 


287 


ornamented  a-top  with  a piece  of  sculptured  drapery  resem- 
bling the  effigy  of  Titbulhs  bath-towel. 

Titbulhs  Alms-Houses  are  in  the  east  of  London,  in  a great 
highway,  in  a poor  busy  and  thronged  neighborhood.  Old 
iron  and  fried  fish,  cough-drops  and  artificial  flowers,  boiled 
pigs^-feet  and  household  furniture  that  looks  as  if  it  were 
polished  up  wdth  lip-salve,  umbrellas  full  of  vocal  literature 
and  saucers  full  of  shell-fish  in  a green  juice  which  I hope  is 
natural  to  them  when  their  health  is  good,  garnish  the  paved 
sideways  as  you  go  to  TitbulPs.  I take  the  ground  to  have 
risen  in  those  parts  since  TitbulPs  time,  and  you  drop  into 
his  domain  by  three  stone  steps.  So  did  I first  drop  into  it, 
very  nearly  striking  my  brows  against  Titbulks  pump,  which 
stands  with  its  back  to  the  thoroughfare  just  inside  the  gate, 
and  has  a conceited  air  of  reviewing  TitbulPs  pensioners. 

And  a worse  one,’^  said  a virulent  old  man  with  a pitcher, 
there  isn’t  nowhere.  A harder  one  to  work,  nor  a grudginer 
one  to  yield,  there  isn’t  nowhere  ! ” This  old  man  wore  a long 
coat,  such  as  we  see  Hogarth’s  chairmen  represented  with,  and 
it  was  of  that  peculiar  green-pea  hue  without  the  green,  which 
seems  to  come  of  poverty.  It  had  also  that  peculiar  smell  of 
cupboard  which  seems  to  come  of  poverty. 

The  pump  is  rusty,  perhaps,”  said  I. 

Hot  said  the  old  man,  regarding  it  with  undiluted 
virulence  in  his  watery  eye.  It  never  were  fit  to  be  termed 
a pump.  That’s  what’s  the  matter  with  ^Y.” 

Whose  fault  is  that  ? ” said  I. 

The  old  man,  who  had  a working  mouth  which  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  masticate  his  anger  and  to  find  that  it  was  too  hard 
and  there  was  too  much  of  it,  replied,  Them  gentlemen.” 

What  gentlemen  ? ” 

Maybe  you’re  one  of  ’em  ? ” said  the  old  man,  suspi- 
ciously. 

The  trustees  ? ” 

I wouldn’t  trust  ’em  myself,”  said  the  virulent  old  man. 

^^If  you  mean  the  gentlemen  who  administer  this  place,  no, 
I am  not  one  of  them  ; nor  have  I ever  so  much  as  heard  of 
them.” 

I wish  I never  heard  of  them,”  gasped  the  old  man : at 


288 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


my  time  of  life  — with  the  rheumatics  — drawing  water — from 
that  thing  ! Not  to  be  deluded  into  calling  it  a Pump,  the 
old  man  gave  it  another  virulent  look,  took  up  his  pitcher, 
and  carried  it  into  a corner  dwelling-house,  shutting  the  door 
after  him. 

Looking  around  and  seeing  that  each  little  house  was  a 
house  of  two  little  rooms ; and  seeing  that  the  little  oblong 
courtyard  in  front  was  like  a graveyard  for  the  inhabitants, 
saving  that  no  word  was  engraven  on  its  flat  dry  stones  ; and 
seeing  that  the  currents  of  life  and  noise  ran  to  and  fro  out- 
side, having  no  more  to  do  with  the  place  than  if  it  were  a 
sort  of  low-water  mark  on  a lively  beach ; I say,  seeing  this 
and  nothing  else,  I was  going  out  at  the  gate  when  one  of  the 
doors  opened. 

Was  you  looking  for  anything,  sir  ? asked  a tidy  well- 
favored  woman. 

Eeally,  no ; I couldn’t  say  I was.” 

Not  wanting  any  one,  sir  ? ” 

No  — at  least  I — pray  what  is  the  name  of  the  elderly 
gentleman  who  lives  in  the  corner  there  ? ” 

The  tidy  woman  stepped  out  to  be  sure  of  the  door  I indi- 
cated, and  she  and  the  pump  and  I stood  all  three  in  a row 
with  our  backs  to  the  thoroughfare. 

Oh ! His  name  is  Mr.  Battens,”  said  the  tidy  woman, 
dropping  her  voice. 

have  just  been  talking  with  him.” 

^Mndeed?”  said  the  tidy  woman.  ^^Ho!  I wonder  Mr. 
Battens  talked ! ” 

Is  he  usually  so  silent  ? ” 

Well,  Mr.  Battens  is  the  oldest  here  — that  is  to  say,  the 
oldest  of  the  old  gentlemen  — in  point  of  residence.” 

She  had  a way  of  passing  her  hands  over  and  under  one 
another  as  she  spoke,  that  was  not  only  tidy  but  propitiatory ; 
so  I asked  her  if  I might  look  at  her  little  sitting-room  ? She 
willingly  replied  Yes,  and  we  went  into  it  together;  she 
leaving  the  door  open,  with  an  eye  as  I understood  to  the 
social  proprieties.  The  door  opening  at  once  into  the  room 
without  any  intervening  entry,  even  scandal  must  have  been 
silenced  by  the  precaution. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


289 


It  was  a gloomy  little  chamber,  but  clean,  and  with  a mug 
of  wallflower  in  the  window.  On  the  chimney-piece  were 
two  peacock’s  feathers,  a carved  ship,  a few  shells,  and  a 
black  profile  with  one  eyelash;  whether  this  portrait  pur- 
ported to  be  male  or  female  passed  my  comprehension,  until 
my  hostess  informed  me  that  it  was  her  only  son,  and  quite 
a speaking  one.” 

He  is  alive,  I hope  ? ” 

Ho,  sir,”  said  the  widow,  he  were  cast  away  in  China.” 
This  was  said  with  a modest  sense  of  its  reflecting  a certain 
geographical  distinction  on  his  mother. 

^^If  the  old  gentlemen  here  are  not  given  to  talking,”  said 
I,  ‘^1  hope  the  old  ladies  are  ? — not  that  you  are  one.” 

She  shook  her  head.  You  see  they  get  so  cross.” 

How  is  that  ? ” 

Well,  whether  the  gentlemen  really  do  deprive  us  of  any 
little  matters  which  ought  to  be  ours  by  rights,  I cannot  say 
for  certain ; but  the  opinion  of  the  old  ones  is  they  do.  And 
Mr.  Battens  he  do  even  go  so  far  as  to  doubt  whether  credit 
is  due  to  the  Founder.  For  Mr.  Battens  he  do  say,  anyhow 
he  got  his  name  up  by  it  and  he  done  it  cheap.” 

I am  afraid  the  pump  has  soured  Mr.  Battens.” 

It  may  be  so,”  returned  the  tidy  widow,  but  the  handle 
does  go  very  hard.  Still,  what  I say  to  myself  is,  the  gentle- 
men may  not  pocket  the  difference  between  a good  pump 
and  a bad  one,  and  I would  wish  to  think  well  of  them.  And 
the  dwellings,”  said  my  hostess,  glancing  round  her  room ; 

perhaps  they  were  convenient  dwellings  in  the  Founder’s 
time,  considered  as  his  time,  and  therefore  he  should  not  be 
blamed.  But  Mrs.  Saggers  is  very  hard  upon  them.” 

Mrs.  Saggers  is  the  oldest  here  ? ” 

^^The  oldest  but  one.  Mrs.  Quinch  being  the  oldest,  and 
have  totally  lost  her  head.” 

And  you  ? ” 

^^I  am  the  youngest  in  residence,  and  consequently  am  not 
looked  up  to.  But  when  Mrs.  Quinch  makes  a happy  release, 
there  will  be  one  below  me.  Hor  is  it  to  be  expected  that 
Mrs.  Saggers  will  prove  herself  immortal.” 

True.  Hor  Mr.  Battens.” 


290 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Regarding  the  old  gentlemen/’  said  my  widow  slightingly, 

they  count  among  themselves.  They  do  not  count  among 
us.  Mr.  Battens  is  that  exceptional  that  he  have  written  to 
the  gentlemen  many  times  and  have  worked  the  case  against 
them.  Therefore  he  have  took  a higher  ground.  But  we 
do  not,  as  a rule,  greatly  reckon  the  old  gentlemen.” 

Pursuing  the  subject,  I found  it  to  be  traditionally  settled 
among  the  poor  ladies  that  the  poor  gentlemen,  whatever 
their  ages,  were  all  very  old  indeed,  and  in  a state  of  dotage. 
I also  discovered  that  the  juniors  and  new-comers  preserved, 
for  a time,  a waning  disposition  to  believe  in  Titbull  and  his 
trustees,  but  that  as  they  gained  social  standing  they  lost 
this  faith,  and  disparaged  Titbull  and  all  his  works. 

Improving  my  acquaintance  subsequently  with  this  re- 
spected lady,  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Mitts,  and  occasionally 
dropping  in  upon  her  with  a little  offering  of  sound  Family 
Hyson  in  my  pocket,  I gradually  became  familiar  with  the 
inner  politics  and  ways  of  Titbull’s  Alms-Houses.  But  I 
never  could  find  out  who  the  trustees  were,  or  where  they 
were : it  being  one  of  the  fixed  ideas  of  the  place  that  those 
authorities  must  be  vaguely  and  mysteriously  mentioned  as 
^Hhe  gentlemen  ” only.  The  secretary  of  ^Hhe  gentlemen” 
was  once  pointed  out  to  me,  evidently  engaged  in  champion- 
ing the  obnoxious  pump  against  the  attacks  of  the  discon- 
tented Mr.  Battens  ; but  I am  not  in  a condition  to  report 
further  of  him  than  that  he  had  the  sprightly  bearing  of  a 
lawyer’s  clerk.  I had  it  from  Mrs.  Mitts’s  lips  in  a very  con- 
fidential moment,  that  Mr.  Battens  was  once  ^^had  up  before 
the  gentlemen”  to  stand  or  fall  by  his  accusations,  and  that 
an  old  shoe  was  thrown  after  him  on  his  departure  from  the 
building  on  this  dread  errand ; — not  ineffectually,  for,  the 
interview  resulting  in  a plumber,  was  considered  to  have 
encircled  the  temples  of  Mr.  Battens  with  the  wreath  of 
victory. 

In  Titbull’s  Alms-Houses,  the  local  society  is  not  regarded 
as  good  society.  A gentleman  or  lady  receiving  visitors  from 
without,  or  going  out  to  tea,  counts,  as  it  were,  accordingly ; 
but  visitings  or  tea-drinkings  interchanged  among  Titbullians 
do  not  score.  Such  interchanges,  however,  are  rare,  in  con- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


291 


sequence  of  internal  dissensions  occasioned  by  Mrs.  Saggers’s 
pail : which  household  article  has  split  Titbull’s  into  almost 
as  many  parties  as  there  are  dwellings  in  that  precinct.  The 
extremely  complicated  nature  of  the  conflicting  articles  of 
belief  on  the  subject  prevents  my  stating  them  here  with  my 
usual  perspicuity^  but  I think  they  have  all  branched  off 
from  the  root-and-trunk  question,  Has  Mrs.  Saggers  any 
right  to  stand  her  pail  outside  her  dwelling  ? The  question 
has  been  much  reflned  upon,  but  roughly  stated  may  be 
stated  in  those  terms. 

There  are  two  old  men  in  Titbull’s  Alms-Houses  who,  I 
have  been  given  to  understand,  knew  each  other  in  the  world 
beyond  its  pump  and  iron  railings,  when  they  were  both  in 
trade.”  They  make  the  best  of  their  reverses,  and  are  looked 
upon  with  great  contempt.  They  are  little  stooping  blear- 
eyed  old  men  of  cheerful  countenance,  and  they  hobble  up 
and  down  the  courtyard  wagging  their  chins  and  talking 
together  quite  gayly.  This  has  given  offence,  and  has,  more- 
over, raised  the  question  whether  they  are  justifled  in  passing 
any  other  windows  than  their  own.  Mr.  Battens,  however, 
permitting  them  to  pass  his  windows,  on  the  disdainful  ground 
that  their  imbecility  almost  amounts  to  irresponsibility,  they 
are  allowed  to  take  their  walk  in  peace.  They  live  next  door 
to  one  another,  and  take  it  by  turns  to  read  the  newspaper 
aloud  (that  is  to  say,  the  newest  newspaper  they  can  get), 
and  they  play  cribbage  at  night.  On  warm  and  sunny  days 
they  have  been  known  to  go  so  far  as  to  bring  out  two  chairs 
and  sit  by  the  iron  railings,  looking  forth,  but  this  low  con- 
duct, being  much  remarked  upon  throughout  Titbull’s,  they 
were  deterred  by  an  outraged  public  opinion  from  repeating 
it.  There  is  a rumor  — but  it  may  be  malicious  — that  they 
hold  the  memory  of  Titbull  in  some  weak  sort  of  veneration, 
and  that  they  once  set  off  together  on  a pilgrimage  to  the 
parish  churchyard  to  And  his  tomb.  To  this,  perhaps,  might 
be  traced  a general  suspicion  that  they  are  spies  of  ^Hhe  gen- 
tlemen : ” to  which  they  were  supposed  to  have  given  color 
in  my  own  presence  on  the  occasion  of  the  weak  attempt  at 
justification  of  the  pump  by  the  gentlemen’s  clerk ; when 
they  emerged  bareheaded  from  the  doors  of  their  dwellings. 


292 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


as  if  their  dwellings  and  themselves  constituted  an  old- 
fashioned  weather-glass  of  double  action  with  two  figures  of 
old  ladies  inside,  and  deferentially  bowed  to  him  at  intervals 
until  he  took  his  departure.  They  are  understood  to  be  per- 
fectly friendless  and  relationless.  Unquestionably  the  two 
poor  fellows  make  the  very  best  of  their  lives  in  Titbulks 
Alms-Houses,  and  unquestionably  they  are  (as  before  men- 
tioned) the  subjects  of  unmitigated  contempt  there. 

On  Saturday  nights,  when  there  is  a greater  stir  than 
usual  outside,  and  when  itinerant  venders  of  miscella- 
neous wares  even  take  their  stations  and  light  up  their 
smoky  lamps  before  the  iron  railings,  Titbulks  becomes  flur- 
ried. Mrs.  Saggers  has  her  celebrated  palpitations  of  the 
heart,  for  the  most  part  on  Saturday  nights.  But  Titbulks 
is  unfit  to  strive  with  the  uproar  of  the  streets  in  any  of  its 
phases.  It  is  religiously  believed  at  Titbulks  that  people 
push  more  than  they  used,  and  likewise  that  the  foremost 
object  of  the  population  of  England  and  Wales  is  to  get  you 
down  and  trample  on  you.  Even  of  railroads  they  know,  at 
Titbulks,  little  more  than  the  shriek  (which  Mrs.  Saggers 
says  goes  through  her,  and  ought  to  be  taken  up  by  Govern- 
ment) ; and  the  penny  postage  may  even  yet  be  unknown 
there,  for  I have  never  seen  a letter  delivered  to  any  inhab- 
itant. But  there  is  a tall  straight  sallow  lady  resident  in 
Number  Seven,  TitbulPs,  who  never  speaks  to  anybody,  who 
is  surrounded  by  a superstitious  halo  of  lost  wealth,  who  does 
her  household  work  in  housemaid’s  gloves,  and  who  is  secretly 
much  deferred  to,  though  openly  cavilled  at;  and  it  has 
obscurely  leaked  out  that  this  old  lady  has  a son,  grandson, 
nephew,  or  other  relative,  who  is  ^^a  Contractor,”  and  who 
would  think  it  nothing  of  a job  to  knock  down  Titbull’s,  pack 
it  off  into  Cornwall,  and  knock  it  together  again.  An  im- 
mense sensation  was  made  by  a gypsy-party  calling  in  a 
spring-van,  to  take  this  old  lady  up  to  go  for  a day’s  pleasure 
into  Epping  Forest,  and  notes  were  compared  as  to  which  of 
the  company  was  the  son,  grandson,  nephew,  or  other  rela- 
tive, the  Contractor.  A thick-set  personage  with  a white 
hat  and  a cigar  in  his  mouth,  was  the  favorite : though  as 
Titbull’s  had  no  other  reason  to  believe  that  the  Contractor 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


293 


was  there  at  all,  than  that  this  man  was  supposed  to  eye  the 
chimney  stacks  as  if  he  would  like  to  knock  them  down  and 
cart  them  off,  the  general  mind  was  much  unsettled  in  arriving 
at  a conclusion.  As  a way  out  of  this  difficulty,  it  concen- 
trated itself  on  the  acknowledged  Beauty  of  the  party,  every 
stitch  in  whose  dress  was  verbally  unripped  by  the  old  ladies 
then  and  there,  and  whose  goings  on  with  another  and  a 
thinner  personage  in  a white  hat  might  have  suffused  the 
pump  (where  they  were  principally  discussed)  with  blushes, 
for  months  afterwards.  Herein  TitbulPs  was  to  Titbulks 
true,  for  it  has  a constitutional  dislike  of  all  strangers.  As 
concerning  innovations  and  improvements,  it  is  always  of 
opinion  that  what  it  doesn^t  want  itself,  nobody  ought  to 
want.  But  I think  I have  met  with  this  opinion  outside 
TitbulPs. 

Of  the  humble  treasure  of  furniture  brought  into  TitbulPs 
by  the  inmates  when  they  establish  themselves  in  that  place 
of  contemplation  for  the  rest  of  their  days,  by  far  the  greater 
and  more  valuable  part  belongs  to  the  ladies.  I may  claim 
the  honor  of  having  either  crossed  the  threshold,  or  looked 
in  at  the  door,  of  every  one  of  the  nine  ladies,  and  I have 
noticed  that  they  are  all  particular  in  the  article  of  bedsteads, 
and  maintain  favorite  and  long-established  bedsteads  and 
bedding  as  a regular  part  of  their  rest.  Generally  an  anti- 
quated chest  of  drawers  is  among  their  cherished  possessions ; 
a tea-tray  always  is.  I know  of  at  least  two  rooms  in  which 
a little  tea-kettle  of  genuine  burnished  copper,  vies  with  the 
cat  in  winking  at  the  fire ; and  one  old  lady  has  a tea-urn 
set  forth  in  state  on  the  top  of  her  chest  of  drawers,  which 
urn  is  used  as  her  library,  and  contains  four  duodecimo 
volumes,  and  a black-bordered  newspaper  giving  an  account 
of  the  funeral  of  Her  Eoyal  Highness  the  Princess  Charlotte. 
Among  the  poor  old  gentlemen  there  are  no  such  niceties. 
Their  furniture  has  the  air  of  being  contributed,  like  some 
obsolete  Literary  Miscellany,  by  several  hands ; their  few 
chairs  never  match;  old  patchwork  coverlets  linger  among 
them ; and  they  have  an  untidy  habit  of  keeping  their  ward- 
robes in  hat-boxes.  When  I recall  one  old  gentleman  who  is 
rather  choice  in  his  shoe-brushes  and  blacking-bottle,  I have 


294 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


summed  up  the  domestic  elegancies  of  that  side  of  the 
building. 

On  the  occurrence  of  a death  in  'Titbulhs,  it  is  invariably 
agreed  among  the  survivors  — and  it  is  the  only  subject  on 
which  they  do  agree  — that  the  departed  did  something  ^^to 
bring  it  on.’’  Judging  by  Titbull’s,  I should  say  the  human 
race  need  never  die,  if  they  took  care.  But  they  don’t  take 
care,  and  they  do  die,  and  when  they  die  in  Titbull’s  they  are 
buried  at  the  cost  of  the  Foundation.  Some  provision  has 
been  made  for  the  purpose,  in  virtue  of  which  (I  record  this 
on  the  strength  of  having  seen  the  funeral  of  Mrs.  Quinch)  a 
lively  neighboring  undertaker  dresses  up  four  of  the  old 
men,  and  four  of  the  old  women,  hustles  them  into  a pro- 
cession of  four  couples,  and  leads  off  with  a large  black  bow 
at  the  back  of  his  hat,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  them  airily 
from  time  to  time  to  see  that  no  member  of  the  party  has  got 
lost,  or  has  tumbled  down ; as  if  they  were  a company  of  dim 
old  dolls. 

Kesignation  of  a dwelling  is  of  very  rare  occurrence  in 
Titbull’s.  A story  does  obtain  there,  how  an  old  lady’s 
son  once  drew  a prize  of  Thirty  Thousand  Pounds  in  the 
Lottery,  and  presently  drove  to  the  gate  in  his  own  car- 
riage, with  French  Horns  playing  up  behind,  and  whisked 
his  mother  away,  and  left  ten  guineas  for  a Feast.  But  I 
have  been  unable  to  substantiate  it  by  any  evidence,  and 
regard  it  as  an  Alms-House  Fairy  Tale.  It  is  curious  that 
the  only  proved  case  of  resignation  happened  within  my 
knowledge. 

It  happened  on  this  wise.  There  is  a sharp  competition 
among  the  ladies  respecting  the  gentility  of  their  visitors,  and 
I have  so  often  observed  visitors  to  be  dressed  as  for  a holiday 
occasion,  that  I suppose  the  ladies  to  have  besought  them  to 
make  all  possible  display  when  they  come.  In  these  circum- 
stances much  excitement  was  one  day  occasioned  by  Mrs. 
Mitts  receiving  a visit  from  a Greenwich  Pensioner.  He  was 
a Pensioner  of  a bluff  and  warlike  appearance,  with  an  empty 
coat-sleeve,  and  he  was  got  up  with  unusual  care ; his  coat- 
buttons  were  extremely  bright,  he  wore  his  empty  coat-sleeve 
in  a graceful  festoon,  and  he  had  a walking-stick  in  his  hand 


A PHENOMENON  AT  TITBULL’S. 


/ 


aij  1.  \ 


;?  J 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


295 


that  must  have  cost  money.  When,  with  the  head  of  his 
walking-stick,  he  knocked  at  Mrs.  Mitts’s  door  — there  are  no 
knockers  in  Titbull’s  — Mrs.  Mitts  was  overheard  by  a next- 
door  neighbor  to  utter  a cry  of  surprise  expressing  much 
agitation ; and  the  same  neighbor  did  afterwards  solemnly 
affirm  that  when  he  was  admitted  into  Mrs.  Mitts’s  room,  she 
heard  a smack.  Heard  a smack  which  was  not  a blow. 

There  was  an  air  about  this  Greenwich  Pensioner  when  he 
took  his  departure,  which  imbued  all  Pitbull’s  with  the  con- 
viction that  he  was  coming  again.  He  was  eagerly  looked 
for,  and  Mrs.  Mitts  was  closely  watched.  In  the  mean  time, 
if  anything  could  have  placed  the  unfortunate  six  old  gentle- 
men at  a greater  disadvantage  than  that  at  which  they 
chronically  stood,  it  would  have  been  the  apparition  of  this 
Greenwich  Pensioner.  They  were  well  shrunken  already, 
but  they  shrunk  to  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  Pensioner. 
Even  the  poor  old  gentlemen  themselves  seemed  conscious  of 
their  inferiority,  and  to  know  submissively  that  they  could 
never  hope  to  hold  their  own  against  the  Pensioner  with  his 
warlike  and  maritime  experience  in  the  past,  and  his  tobacco 
money  in  the  present : his  checkered  career  of  blue  water, 
black  gunpowder,  and  red  bloodshed  for  England  home  and 
beauty. 

Before  three  weeks  were  out,  the  Pensioner  reappeared. 
Again  he  knocked  at  Mrs.  Mitts’s  door  with  the  handle  of 
his  stick,  and  again  was  he  admitted.  But  not  again  did  he 
depart  alone  ; for  Mrs.  Mitts,  in  a bonnet  identified  as  having 
been  re-embellished,  went  out  walking  with  him,  and  stayed 
out  till  the  ten  o’clock  beer,  Greenwich  time. 

There  was  now  a truce,  even  as  to  the  troubled  waters  of 
Mrs.  Saggers’s  pail ; nothing  was  spoken  of  among  the  ladies 
but  the  conduct  of  Mrs.  Mitts  and  its  blighting  infiuence  on 
the  reputation  of  Pitbull’s.  It  was  agreed  that  Mr.  Battens 
ought  to  take  it  up,”  and  Mr.  Battens  was  communicated 
with  on  the  subject.  That  unsatisfactory  individual  replied 
^^that  he  didn’t  see  his  way  yet,”  and  it  was  unanimously 
voted  by  the  ladies  that  aggravation  was  in  his  nature. 

How  it  came  to  pass,  with  some  appearance  of  inconsist- 
ency, that  Mrs.  Mitts  was  cut  by  all  the  ladies  and  the 


296 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Pensioner  admired  by  all  the  ladies,  matters  not.  Before 
another  week  was  out,  TitbulPs  was  startled  by  another 
phenomenon.  At  ten  o’clock  in  the  forenoon  appeared  a cab, 
containing  not  only  the  Greenwich  Pensioner  with  one  arm, 
but,  to  boot,  a Chelsea  Pensioner  with  one  leg.  Both  dis- 
mounting to  assist  Mrs.  Mitts  into  the  cab,  the  Greenwich 
Pensioner  bore  her  company  inside,  and  the  Chelsea  Pen- 
sioner mounted  the  box  by  the  driver : his  wooden  leg 
sticking  out  after  the  manner  of  a bowsprit,  as  if  in  jocular 
homage  to  his  friend’s  sea-going  career.  Thus  the  equipage 
drove  away.  No  Mrs.  Mitts  returned  that  night. 

What  Mr.  Battens  might  have  done  in  the  matter  of  taking 
it  up,  goaded  by  the  infuriated  state  of  public  feeling  next 
morning,  was  anticipated  by  another  phenomenon.  A Truck, 
propelled  by  the  Greenwich  Pensioner  and  the  Chelsea  Pen- 
sioner, each  placidly  smoking  a pipe,  and  pushing  his  warrior 
breast  against  the  handle. 

The  display  on  the  part  of  the  Greenwich  Pensioner  of  his 
marriage-lines,”  and  his  announcement  that  himself  and 
friend  had  looked  in  for  the  furniture  of  Mrs.  G.  Pensioner, 
late  Mitts,  by  no  means  reconciled  the  ladies  to  the  conduct 
of  their  sister  ; on  the  contrary,  it  is  said  that  they  appeared 
more  than  ever  exasperated.  Nevertheless,  my  stray  visits 
to  Titbull’s  since  the  date  of  this  occurrence,  have  confirmed 
me  in  an  impression  that  it  was  a wholesome  fillip.  The  nine 
ladies  are  smarter,  both  in  mind  and  dress,  than  they  used 
to  be,  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  they  despise  the  six 
gentlemen  to  the  last  extent.  They  have  a much  greater 
interest  in  the  external  thoroughfare  too,  than  they  had  when 
I first  knew  Titbull’s.  And  whenever  I chance  to  be  leaning 
my  back  against  the  pump  or  the  iron  railings,  and  to  be  talk- 
ing to  one  of  the  junior  ladies,  and  to  see  that  a flush  has 
passed  over  her  face,  I immediately  know  without  looking 
round  that  a Greenwich  Pensioner  has  gone  past. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


297 


XXVIII. 

THE  ITALIAN  PRISONER. 

The  rising  of  the  Italian  people  from  under  their  unutter- 
able wrongs,  and  the  tardy  burst  of  day  upon  them  after  the 
long  long  night  of  oppression  that  has  darkened  their  beauti- 
ful country,  have  naturally  caused  my  mind  to  dwell  often 
of  late  on  my  own  small  wanderings  in  Italy.  Connected 
with  them,  is  a curious  little  drama,  in  which  the  character  I 
myself  sustained  was  so  very  subordinate  that  I may  relate 
its  story  without  any  fear  of  being  suspected  of  self-display. 
It  is  strictly  a true  story. 

I am  newly  arrived  one  summer  evening,  in  a certain 
small  town  on  the  Mediterranean.  I have  had  my  dinner  at 
the  inn,  and  I and  the  mosquitoes  are  coming  out  into  the 
streets  together.  It  is  far  from  Xaples  ; but  a bright  brown 
plump  little  woman-servant  at  the  inn,  is  a Keapolitan,  and 
is  so  vivaciously  expert  in  pantomimic  action,  that  in  the 
single  moment  of  answering  my  request  to  have  a pair  of 
shoes  cleaned  which  I have  left  up-stairs,  she  plies  imaginary 
brushes,  and  goes  completely  through  the  motions  of  polishing 
the  shoes  up,  and  laying  them  at  my  feet.  I smile  at  the 
brisk  little  woman  in  perfect  satisfaction  with  her  briskness ; 
and  the  brisk  little  woman,  amiably  pleased  with  me  because 
I am  pleased  with  her,  claps  her  hands  and  laughs  delight- 
fully. We  are  in  the  inn-yard.  As  the  little  woman’s  bright 
eyes  sparkle  on  the  cigarette  I am  smoking  I make  bold  to 
offer  her  one  ; she  accepts  it  none  the  less  merrily,  because  I 
touch  a most  charming  little  dimple  in  her  fat  cheek,  with  its 
light  paper  end.  Glancing  up  at  the  many  green  lattices  to 
assure  herself  that  the  mistress  is  not  looking  on,  the  little 
A7oman  then  puts  her  two  little  dimple  arms  a-kimbo,  and 
stands  on  tiptoe  to  light  her  cigarette  at  mine.  And  now, 
dear  little  sir,”  says  she,  puffing  out  smoke  in  a most  inno- 


298 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


cent  and  cherubic  manner,  keep  quite  straight  on,  take  the 
first  to  the  right,  and  probably  you  will  see  him  standing  at 
his  door.’^ 

I have  a commission  to  ^^him,’’  and  I have  been  inquiring 
about  him.  I have  carried  the  commission  about  Italy 
several  months.  Before  I left  England,  there  came  to  me 
one  night  a certain  generous  and  gentle  English  nobleman 
(he  is  dead  in  these  days  when  I relate  the  story,  and  exiles 
have  lost  their  best  British  friend),  with  this  request : When- 
ever you  come  to  such  a town,  will  you  seek  out  one  Giovanni 
Carlavero,  who  keeps  a little  wine-shop  there,  mention  my 
name  to  him  suddenly,  and  observe  how  it  affects  him  ? ’’  I 
accepted  the  trust,  and  am  on  my  way  to  discharge  it. 

The  sirocco  has  been  blowing  all  day,  and  it  is  a hot 
unwholesome  evening  with  no  cool  sea-breeze.  Mosquitoes 
and  fireflies  are  lively  enough,  but  most  other  creatures  are 
faint.  The  coquettish  airs  of  pretty  young  women  in  the 
tiniest  and  wickedest  of  dolls’  straw  hats,  who  lean  out  at 
opened  lattice  blinds,  are  almost  the  only  airs  stirring.  Very 
ugly  and  haggard  old  women  with  distaffs,  and  with  a gray 
tow  upon  them  that  looks  as  if  they  were  spinning  out  their 
own  hair  (I  suppose  they  were  once  pretty,  too,  but  it  is  very 
difficult  to  believe  so),  sit  on  the  footway  leaning  against 
house  walls.  Everybody  who  has  come  for  water  to  the 
fountain,  stays  there,  and  seems  incapable  of  any  such  ener- 
getic idea  as  going  home.  Vespers  are  over,  though  not  so 
long  but  that  I can  smell  the  heavy  resinous  incense  as  I 
pass  the  church.  No  man  seems  to  be  at  work,  save  the 
coppersmith.  In  an  Italian  town  he  is  always  at  work,  and 
always  thumping  in  the  deadliest  manner. 

I keep  straight  on,  and  come  in  due  time  to  the  first  on 
the  right ; a narrow  dull  street,  where  I see  a well-favored 
man  of  good  stature  and  military  bearing,  in  a great  cloak, 
standing  at  a door.  Drawing  near  to  this  threshold,  I see 
it  is  the  threshold  of  a small  wine-shop  ; and  I can  just  make 
out,  in  the  dim  light,  the  inscription  that  it  is  kept  by  Giovanni 
Carlavero. 

I touch  my  hat  to  the  figure  in  the  cloak,  and  pass  in,  and 
draw  a stool  to  a little  table.  The  lamp  (just  such  another  as 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


299 


they  dig  out  of  Pompeii)  is  lighted,  but  the  place  is  empty. 
The  figure  in  the  cloak  has  followed  me  in,  and  stands  before 
me. 

The  master  ? 

At  your  service,  sir.’^ 

Please  to  give  me  a glass  of  the  wine  of  the  country.’^ 

He  turns  to  a little  counter,  to  get  it.  As  his  striking 
face  is  pale,  and  his  action  is  evidently  that  of  an  enfeebled 
man,  I remark  that  I fear  he  has  been  ill.  It  is  not  much, 
he  courteously  and  gravely  answers,  though  bad  while  it  lasts  : 
the  fever. 

As  he  sets  the  wine  on  the  little  table,  to  his  manifest 
surprise  I lay  my  hand  on  the  back  of  his,  look  him  in  the 
face,  and  say  in  a low  voice,  am  an  Englishman,  and 
you  are  acquainted  with  a friend  of  mine.  Do  you  recol- 
lect   ? and  I mentioned  the  name  of  my  generous  coun- 

tryman. 

Instantly,  he  utters  a loud  cry,  bursts  into  tears,  and  falls 
on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  clasping  my  legs  in  both  his  arms 
and  bowing  his  head  to  the  ground. 

Some  years  ago,  this  man  at  my  feet,  whose  over-fraught 
heart  is  heaving  as  if  it  would  burst  from  his  breast,  and 
whose  tears  are  wet  upon  the  dress  I wear,  was  a galley-slave 
in  the  North  of  Italy.  He  was  a political  offender,  having 
been  concerned  in  the  then  last  rising,  and  was  sentenced 
to  imprisonment  for  life.  That  he  would  have  died  in  his 
chains,  is  certain,  but  for  the  circumstance  that  the  English- 
man happened  to  visit  his  prison. 

It  was  one  of  the  vile  old  prisons  of  Italy,  and  a part  of  it 
was  below  the  waters  of  the  harbor.  The  place  of  his  confine- 
ment was  an  arched  under-ground  and  under-water  gallery, 
with  a grill-gate  at  the  entrance,  through  which  it  received 
such  light  and  air  as  it  got.  Its  condition  was  insufferably 
foul,  and  a stranger  could  hardly  breathe  in  it,  or  see  in  it  with 
the  aid  of  a torch.  At  the  upper  end  of  this  dungeon,  and  con- 
sequently in  the  worst  position,  as  being  the  furthest  removed 
from  light  and  air,  the  Englishman  first  beheld  him,  sitting  on 
an  iron  bedstead  to  which  he  was  chained  by  a heavy  chain. 
His  countenance  impressed  the  Englishman  as  having  nothing 


300 


THE  UHCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


in  common  with  the  faces  of  the  malefactors  witk  whom  he 
was  associated,  and  he  talked  with  him,  and  learnt  how  he 
came  to  be  there. 

When  the  Englishman  emerged  from  the  dreadful  den  into 
the  light  of  day,  he  asked  his  conductor,  the  governor  of  the 
jail,  why  Giovanni  Carlavero  was  put  into  the  worst  place  ? 

Because  he  is  particularly  recommended,’^  was  the  strin- 
gent answer. 

Eecommended,  that  is  to  say,  for  death  ? ” 

Excuse  me ; particularly  recommended,”  was  again  the 
answer. 

He  has  a bad  tumor  in  his  neck,  no  doubt  occasioned  by 
the  hardship  of  his  miserable  life.  If  he  continues  to  be 
neglected,  and  he  remains  where  he  is,  it  will  kill  him.” 

Excuse  me,  I can  do  nothing.  He  is  particularly  recom- 
mended.” 

The  Englishman  was  staying  in  that  town,  and  he  went  to 
his  home  there  ; but  the  figure  of  this  man  chained  to  the  bed- 
stead made  it  no  home,  and  destroyed  his  rest  and  peace.  He 
was  an  Englishman  of  an  extraordinarily  tender  heart,  and  he 
could  not  bear  the  picture.  He  went  back  to  the  prison 
grate  ; went  back  again  and  again,  and  talked  to  the  man  and 
cheered  him.  He  used  his  utmost  influence  to  get  the  man 
unchained  from  the  bedstead,  were  it  only  for  ever  so  short  a 
time  in  the  day,  and  permitted  to  come  to  the  grate.  It  took 
a long  time,  but  the  Englishman’s  station,  personal  character, 
and  steadiness  of  purpose,  wore  out  opposition  so  far,  and  that 
grace  was  at  last  accorded.  Through  the  bars,  when  he  could 
thus  get  light  upon  the  tumor,  the  Englishman  lanced  it,  and 
it  did  well,  and  healed.  His  strong  interest  in  the  prisoner 
had  greatly  increased  by  this  time,  and  he  formed  the  desper- 
ate resolution  that  he  would  exert  his  utmost  self-devotion 
and  use  his  utmost  efforts,  to  get  Carlavero  pardoned. 

If  the  prisoner  had  been  a brigand  and  a murderer,  if  he 
had  committed  every  non-political  crime  in  the  Newgate 
Calendar  and  out  of  it,  nothing  would  have  been  easier  than 
for  a man  of  any  court  or  priestly  influence  to  obtain  his 
release.  As  it  was,  nothing  could  have  been  more  difficult. 
Italian  authorities,  and  English  authorities  who  had  interest 


THE  UNC0M3IERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


301 


with  them,  alike  assured  the  Englishman  that  his  object  was 
hopeless.  He  met  with  nothing  but  evasion,  refusal,  and 
ridicule.  His  political  prisoner  became  a joke  in  the  place. 
It  was  especially  observable  that  English  Circumlocution,  and 
English  Society  on  its  travels,  were  as  humorous  on  the  sub- 
ject as  Circumlocution  and  Society  may  be  on  any  subject 
without  loss  of.  caste.  But,  the  Englishman  possessed  (and 
proved  it  well  in  his  life)  a courage  very  uncommon  among 
us : he  had  not  the  least  fear  of  being  considered  a bore,  in  a 
good  humane  cause.  So  he  went  on  persistently  trying,  and 
trying,  and  trying,  to  get  Giovanni  Carlavero  out.  That 
prisoner  had  been  rigorously  rechained,  after  the  tumor 
operation,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  his  miserable  life  could 
last  very  long. 

One  day,  when  all  the  town  knew  about  the  Englishman 
and  his  political  prisoner,  there  came  to  the  Englishman,  a 
certain  sprightly  Italian  Advocate  of  whom  he  had  some 
knowledge;  and  he  made  this  strange  proposal.  ^^Give  me  a 
hundred  pounds  to  obtain  Carlavero’s  release.  I think  I can 
get  him  a pardon,  with  that  money.  But  I cannot  tell  you 
what  I am  going  to  do  with  the  money,  nor  must  you  ever 
ask  me  the  question  if  I succeed,  nor  must  you  ever  ask  me 
for  an  account  of  the  money  if  I fail.’’  The  Englishman 
decided  to  hazard  the  hundred  pounds.  He  did  so,  and  heard 
not  another  word  of  the  matter.  For  half  a year  and  more, 
the  Advocate  made  no  sign,  and  never  once  took  on  ” in  any 
way,  to  have  the  subject  on  his  mind.  The  Englishman  was 
then  obliged  to  change  his  residence  to  another  and  more 
famous  town  in  the  North  of  Italy.  He  parted  from  the  poor 
prisoner  with  a sorrowful  heart,  as  from  a doomed  man  from 
whom  there  was  no  release  but  Death. 

The  Englishman  lived  in  his  new  place  of  abode  another 
half-year  and  more,  and  had  no  tidings  of  the  wretched  pris- 
oner. At  length,  one  day,  he  received  from  the  Advocate  a 
cool  concise  mysterious  note,  to  this  effect.  ^^If  you  still 
wish  to  bestow  that  benefit  upon  the  man  in  whom  you  were 
once  interested,  send  me  fifty  pounds  more,  and  I think  it  can 
be  insured.”  Now,  the  Englishman  had  long  settled  in  his 
mind  that  the  Advocate  was  a heartless  sharper,  who  had 


302 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


preyed  upon  his  credulity  and  his  interest  in  an  unfortunate 
sufferer.  So,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a dry  answer,  giving  the 
Advocate  to  understand  that  he  was  wiser  now  than  he  had 
been  formerly,  and  that  no  more  money  was  extractable  from 
his  pocket. 

He  lived  outside  the  city  gates,  some  mile  or  two  from  the 
post-office,  and  was  accustomed  to  walk  into  the  city  with  his 
letters  and  post  them  himself.  On  a lovely  spring  day,  when 
the  sky  was  exquisitely  blue,  and  the  sea  divinely  beautiful, 
he  took  his  usual  walk,  carrying  this  letter  to  the  Advocate 
in  his  pocket.  As  he  went  along,  his  gentle  heart  was  much 
moved  by  the  loveliness  of  the  prospect,  and  by  the  thought 
of  the  slowly  dying  prisoner  chained  to  the  bedstead,  for 
whom  the  universe  had  no  delights.  As  he  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  city  where  he  was  to  post  the  letter,  he  became 
very  uneasy  in  his  mind.  He  debated  with  himself,  was  it 
remotely  possible,  after  all,  that  this  sum  of  fifty  pounds 
could  restore  the  fellow-creature  whom  he  pitied  so  much, 
and  for  whom  he  had  striven  so  hard,  to  liberty  ? He  was 
not  a conventionally  rich  Englishman  — very  far  from  that  — 
but,  he  had  a spare  fifty  pounds  at  the  banker’s.  He  resolved 
to  risk  it.  Without  doubt,  God  has  recompensed  him  for  the 
resolution. 

He  went  to  the  banker’s,  and  got  a bill  for  the  amount,  and 
enclosed  it  in  a letter  to  the  Advocate  that  I wish  I could  have 
seen.  He  simply  told  the  Advocate  that  he  was  quite  a poor 
man,  and  that  he  was  sensible  it  might  be  a great  weakness  in 
him  to  part  with  so  much  money  on  the  faith  of  so  vague  a 
communication ; but,  that  there  it  was,  and  that  he  prayed  the 
Advocate  to  make  a good  use  of  it.  If  he  did  otherwise  no 
good  could  ever  come  of  it,  and  it  would  lie  heavy  on  his  soul 
one  day. 

Within  a week,  the  Englishman  was  sitting  at  his  breakfast, 
when  he  heard  some  suppressed  sounds  of  agitation  on  the 
staircase,  and  Giovanni  Carlavero  leaped  into  the  room  and 
fell  upon  his  breast,  a free  man  ! 

Conscious  of  having  wronged  the  Advocate  in  his  own 
thoughts,  the  Englishman  wrote  him  an  earnest  and  grateful 
letter,  avowing  the  fact,  and  entreating  him  to  confide  by 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


303 


what  means  and  through  what  agency  he  had  succeeded  so 
well.  The  Advocate  returned  for  answer  through  the  post, 

There  are  many  things,  as  you  know,  in  this  Italy  of  ours, 
that  are  safest  and  best  not  even  spoken  of  — far  less  written 
of.  We  may  meet  some  day,  and  then  I may  tell  you  what 
you  want  to  know  ; not  here,  and  now.’^  But,  the  two  never 
did  meet  again.  The  Advocate  was  dead  when  the  English- 
man gave  me  my  trust ; and  how  the  man  had  been  set  free, 
remained  as  great  a mystery  to  the  Englishman,  and  to  the 
man  himself,  as  it  was  to  me. 

But,  I knew  this  : — here  was  the  man,  this  sultry  night,  on 
his  knees  at  my  feet,  because  I was  the  Englishman’s  friend ; 
here  were  his  tears  upon  my  dress  ; here  were  his  sobs  chok- 
ing his  utterance  ; here  were  his  kisses  on  my  hands,  because 
they  had  touched  the  hands  that  had  worked  out  his  release. 
He  had  no  need  to  tell  me  it  would  be  happiness  to  him  to  die 
for  his  benefactor  ; I doubt  if  I ever  saw  real  sterling,  fervent 
gratitude  of  soul,  before  or  since. 

He  was  much  watched  and  suspected,  he  said,  and  had  had 
enough  to  do  to  keep  himself  out  of  trouble.  This,  and  his 
not  having  prospered  in  his  worldly  affairs,  had  led  to  his 
having  failed  in  his  usual  communications  to  the  Englishman 
for  — as  I now  remember  the  period  — some  two  or  three  years. 
But,  his  prospects  were  brighter,  and  his  wife  who  had  been 
very  ill  had  recovered,  and  his  fever  had  left  him,  and  he  had 
bought  a little  vineyard,  and  would  I carry  to  his  benefactor  the 
first  of  its  wine  ? Ay,  that  I would  (I  told  him  with  enthu- 
siasm), and  not  a drop  of  it  should  be  spilled  or  lost ! 

He  had  cautiously  closed  the  door  before  speaking  of  him- 
self, and  had  talked  with  such  excess  of  emotion,  and  in  a 
provincial  Italian  so  difficult  to  understand,  that  I had  more 
than  once  been  obliged  to  stop  him,  and  beg  him  to  have 
compassion  on  me  and  be  slower  and  calmer.  By  degrees  he 
became  so,  and  tranquilly  walked  back  with  me  to  the  hotel. 
There,  I sat  down  before  I went  to  bed  and  wrote  a faithful 
account  of  him  to  the  Englishman : which  I concluded  by 
saying  that  I would  bring  the  wine  home,  against  any  difficul- 
ties, every  drop. 

Early  next  morning  when  I came  out  at  the  hotel  door  to 


304 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


pursue  my  journey,  I found  my  friend  waiting  with,  one  of 
those  immense  bottles  in  which  the  Italian  peasants  store 
their  wine  — a bottle  holding  some  half-dozen  gallons  — bound 
round  with  basket-work  for  greater  safety  on  the  journey.  I 
see  him  now,  in  the  bright  sunlight,  tears  of  gratitude  in  his 
eyes,  proudly  inviting  my  attention  to  this  corpulent  bottle. 
(At  the  street-corner  hard  by,  two  high-flavored  able-bodied 
monks  — pretending  to  talk  together,  but  keeping  their  four 
evil  eyes  upon  us.) 

How  the  bottle  had  been  got  there,  did  not  appear;  but  the 
difficulty  of  getting  it  into  the  ramshackle  vetturino  carriage 
in  which  I was  departing,  was  so  great,  and  it  took  up  so 
much  room  when  it  was  got  in,  that  I elected  to  sit  outside. 
The  last  I saw  of  Giovanni  Carlavero  was  his  running  through 
the  town  by  the  side  of  the  jingling  wheels,  clasping  my  hand 
as  I stretched  it  down  from  the  box,  charging  me  with  a thou- 
sand last  loving  and  dutiful  messages  to  his  dear  patron,  and 
finally  looking  in  at  the  bottle  as  it  reposed  inside,  with  an 
admiration  of  its  honorable  way  of  travelling  that  was  beyond 
measure  delightful. 

And  now,  what  disquiet  of  mind  this  dearly-beloved  and 
highly-treasured  Bottle  began  to  cost  me,  no  man  knows.  It 
was  my  precious  charge  through  a long  tour,  and,  for  hun- 
dreds of  miles,  I never  had  it  off  my  mind  by  day  or  by  night. 
Over  bad  roads  — and  there  were  many  — I clung  to  it  with 
affectionate  desperation.  Up  mountains,  I looked  in  at  it  and 
saw  it  helplessly  tilting  over  on  its  back,  with  terror.  At 
innumerable  inn  doors  when  the  weather  was  bad,  I was 
obliged  to  be  put  into  my  vehicle  before  the  Bottle  could  be 
got  in,  and  was  obliged  to  have  the  Bottle  lifted  out  before 
human  aid  could  come  near  me.  The  Imp  of  the  same  name, 
except  that  his  associations  were  all  evil  and  these  associa- 
tions were  all  good,  would  have  been  a less  troublesome  trav- 
elling companion.  I might  have  served  Mr.  Cruikshank  as  a 
subject  for  a new  illustration  of  the  miseries  of  the  Bottle. 
The  National  Temperance  Society  might  have  made  a power- 
ful Tract  of  me. 

The  suspicions  that  attached  to  this  innocent  Bottle  greatly 
aggravated  my  difficulties.  It  was  like  the  apple-pie  in  the 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


305 


child’s  book.  Parma  pouted  at  it,  Modena  mocked  it,  Tus- 
cany tackled  it,  Naples  nibbled  it,  Rome  refused  it,  Austria 
accused  it.  Soldiers  suspected  it,  Jesuits  jobbed  it.  I com- 
posed a neat  Oration,  developing  my  inoffensive  intentions  in 
connection  with  this  Bottle,  and  delivered  it  in  an  infinity  of 
guard-houses,  at  a multitude  of  town  gates,  and  on  every 
drawbridge,  angle,  and  rampart,  of  a complete  system  of 
fortifications.  Fifty  times  a day,  I got  down  to  harangue  an 
infuriated  soldiery  about  the  Bottle.  Through  the  filthy 
degradation  of  the  abject  and  vile  Roman  States,  I had  as 
much  difficulty  in  workimg  my  way  with  the  Bottle,  as  if  it 
had  bottled  up  a complete  system  of  heretical  theology.  In 
the  Neapolitan  country,  where  everybody  was  a spy,  a soldier, 
a priest,  or  a lazzarone,  the  shameless  beggars  of  all  four 
denominations  incessantly  pounced  on  the  Bottle  and  made  it 
a pretext  for  extorting  money  from  me.  Quires — quires  do 
I say?  Reams  — of  forms  illegibly  printed  on  whity-brown 
paper  were  filled  up  about  the  Bottle,  and  it  was  the  subject 
of  more  stamping  and  sanding  than  I had  ever  seen  before. 
In  consequence  of  which  haze  of  sand,  perhaps,  it  was  always 
irregular,  and  always  latent  with  dismal  penalties  of  going 
back  or  not  going  forward,  which  were  only  to  be  abated  by 
the  silver  crossing  of  a base  hand,  poked  shirtless  out  of  a 
ragged  uniform  sleeve.  Under  all  discouragements,  however, 
I stuck  to  my  Bottle,  and  held  firm  to  my  resolution  that 
every  drop  of  its  contents  should  reach  the  Bottle’s  destina- 
tion. 

The  latter  refinement  cost  me  a separate  heap  of  troubles 
on  its  own  separate  account.  What  corkscrews  did  I see  the 
military  power  bring  out  against  that  Bottle  ; what  gimlets, 
spikes,  divining-rods,  gauges,  and  unknown  tests  and  instru- 
ments ! At  some  places,  they  persisted  in  declaring  that  the 
wine  must  not  be  passed,  without  being  opened  and  tasted ; 
I,  pleading  to  the  contrary,  used  then  to  argue  the  question 
seated  on  the  Bottle  lest  they  should  open  it  in  spite  of  me. 
In  the  southern  parts  of  Italy  more  violent  shrieking,  face- 
making, and  gesticulating,  greater  vehemence  of  speech  and 
countenance  and  action,  went  on  about  that  Bottle,  than 
would  attend  fifty  murders  in  a northern  latitude.  It  raised 


306 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


important  functionaries  out  of  their  beds,  in  the  dead  of  night. 
I have  known  half  a dozen  military  lanterns  to  disperse 
themselves  at  all  points  of  a great  sleeping  Piazza,  each 
lantern  summoning  some  official  creature  to  get  up,  put  on  his 
cocked-hat  instantly,  and  come  and  stop  the  Bottle.  It  was 
characteristic  that  while  this  innocent  Bottle  had  such  immense 
difficulty  in  getting  from  little  town  to  town.  Signor  Mazzini 
and  the  fiery  cross  were  traversing  Italy  from  end  to  end. 

Still,  I stuck  to  my  Bottle,  like  any  fine  old  English  gentle- 
man all  of  the  olden  time.  The  more  the  Bottle  was  inter- 
fered with,  the  stancher  I became  (if  possible)  in  my  first 
determination  that  my  countryman  should  have  it  delivered 
to  him  intact,  as  the  man  whom  he  had  so  nobly  restored  to 
life  and  liberty  had  delivered  it  to  me.  If  ever  I had  been 
obstinate  in  my  days  — and  I may  have  been,  say,  once  or 
twice  — I was  obstinate  about  the  Bottle.  But,  I made  it  a 
rule  always  to  keep  a pocket  full  of  small  coin  at  its  service, 
and  never  to  be  out  of  temper  in  its  cause.  Thus,  I and  the 
Bottle  made  our  way.  Once  we  had  a break-down  ; rather  a 
bad  break-down,  on  a steep  high  place  with  the  sea  below  us, 
on  a tempestuous  evening  when  it  blew  great  guns.  We  were 
driving  four  wild  horses  abreast.  Southern  fashion,  and  there 
was  some  little  difficulty  in  stopping  them.  I was  outside, 
and  not  thrown  off ; but  no  words  can  describe  my  feelings 
when  I saw  the  Bottle — travelling  inside,  as  usual  — burst 
the  door  open,  and  roll  obesely  out  into  the  road.  A blessed 
Bottle,  with  a charmed  existence,  he  took  no  hurt,  and  we 
repaired  damage,  and  went  on  triumphant. 

A thousand  representations  were  made  to  me  that  the 
Bottle  must  be  left  at  this  place,  or  that,  and  called  for  again. 
I never  yielded  to  one  of  them,  and  never  parted  from  the 
Bottle,  on  any  pretence,  consideration,  threat,  or  entreaty. 
I had  no  faith  in  any  official  receipt  for  the  Bottle,  and  noth- 
ing would  induce  me  to  accept  one.  These  unmanageable  poli- 
tics at  last  brought  me  and  the  Bottle,  still  triumphant,  to 
Genoa.  There,  I took  a tender  and  reluctant  leave  of  him 
for  a few  weeks,  and  consigned  him  to  a trusty  English 
captain,  to  be  conveyed  to  the  Port  of  London  by  sea. 

While  the  Bottle  was  on  his  voyage  to  England,  I read  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


307 


Shipping  Intelligence  as  anxiously  as  if  I had  been  an  under- 
writer. There  was  some  stormy  weather  after  I myself  had 
got  to  England  by  way  of  Switzerland  and  France,  and  my 
mind  greatly  misgave  me  that  the  Bottle  might  be  wrecked. 
At  last  to  my  great  joy,  I received  notice  of  his  safe  arrival, 
and  immediately  went  down  to  Saint  Katharine^s  Docks,  and 
found  him  in  a state  of  honorable  captivity  in  the  Custom 
House. 

The  wine  was  mere  vinegar  when  I set  it  down  before  the 
generous  Englishman  — probably  it  had  been  something  like 
vinegar  when  I took  it  up  from  Giovanni  Carlavero  — but  not 
a drop  of  it  was  spilled  or  gone.  And  the  Englishman  told 
me,  with  much  emotion  in  his  face  and  voice,  that  he  had 
never  tasted  wine  that  seemed  to  him  so  sweet  and  sound. 
And  long  afterwards,  the  Bottle  graced  his  table.  And  the 
last  time  I saw  him  in  this  world  that  misses  him,  he  took 
me  aside  in  a crowd,  to  say,  with  his  amiable  smile:  ^^We 
were  talking  of  you  only  to-day  at  dinner,  and  I wished  you 
had  been  there,  for  I had  some  Claret  up  in  Carlavero'S 
Bottle.^’ 


308 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XXIX. 

THE  SHORT-TIMERS. 

Within  so  many  yards  of  this  Co  vent-garden  lodging  of 
mine,  as  within  so  many  yards  of  Westminster  Abbey,  Saint 
Paul’s  Cathedral,  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  the  Prisons,  the 
Courts  of  Justice,  all  the  Institutions  that  govern  the  land,  I 
can  find  — must  find,  whether  I will  or  no  — in  the  open 
streets,  shameful  instances  of  neglect  of  children,  intolerable 
toleration  of  the  engenderment  of  paupers,  idlers,  thieves,  races 
of  wretched  and  destructive  cripples  both  in  body  and  mind,  a 
misery  to  themselves,  a misery  to  the  community,  a disgrace 
to  civilization,  and  an  outrage  on  Christianity.  I know  it  to 
be  a fact  as  easy  of  demonstration  as  any  sum  in  any  of  the 
elementary  rules  of  arithmetic,  that  if  the  State  would  begin 
its  work  and  duty  at  the  beginning,  and  would  with  the  strong 
hand  take  those  children  out  of  the  streets,  while  they  are 
yet  children,  and  wisely  train  them,  it  would  make  them  a 
part  of  England’s  glory,  not  its  shame  — of  England’s  strength, 
not  its  weakness — would  raise  good  soldiers  and  sailors,  and 
good  citizens,  and  many  great  men,  out  of  the  seeds  of  its 
criminal  population.  Yet  I go  on  bearing  with  the  enormity 
as  if  it  were  nothing,  and  I go  on  reading  the  Parliamentary 
Debates  as  if  they  were  something,  and  I concern  myself  far 
more  about  one  railway  bridge  across  a public  thoroughfare, 
than  about  a dozen  generations  of  scrofula,  ignorance,  wicked- 
ness, prostitution,  poverty,  and  felony.  I can  slip  out  at  my 
door,  in  the  small  hours  after  any  midnight,  and,  in  one  circuit 
of  the  purlieus  of  Co  vent-garden  Market,  can  behold  a state 
of  infancy  and  youth,  as  vile  as  if  a Bourbon  sat  upon  the 
English  throne ; a great  police  force  looking  on  with  authority 
to  do  no  more  than  worry  and  hunt  the  dreadful  vermin  into 
corners,  and  there  leave  them.  Within  the  length  of  a few 
streets  I can  find  a workhouse,  mismanaged  with  that  dull 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLEB, 


309 


short-sighted  obstinacy  that  its  greatest  opportunities  as  to 
the  children  it  receives  are  lost,  and  yet  not  a farthing  saved 
to  any  one.  But  the  wheel  goes  round,  and  round,  and  round ; 
and  because  it  goes  round  — so  I am  told  by  the  politest 
authorities  — it  goes  well.’^ 

Thus  I reflected,  one  day  in  the  Whitsun  week  last  past,  as 
I floated  down  the  Thames  among  the  bridges,  looking  — not 
inappropriately  — at  the  drags  that  were  hanging  up  at  certain 
dirty  stairs  to  hook  the  drowned  out,  and  at  the  numerous 
conveniences  provided  to  facilitate  their  tumbling  in.  My 
object  in  that  uncommercial  journey  called  up  another  train 
of  thought,  and  it  ran  as  follows  : — 

^^When  I was  at  school,  one  of  seventy  boys,  I wonder 
by  what  secret  understanding  our  attention  began  to  wander 
when  we  had  pored  over  our  books  for  some  hours.  I won- 
der by  what  ingenuity  we  brought  on  that  confused  state  of 
mind  when  sense  became  nonsense,  when  figures  wouldn’t 
work,  when  dead  languages  wouldn’t  construe,  when  live 
languages  wouldn’t  be  spoken,  when  memory  wouldn’t  come, 
when  dulness  and  vacancy  wouldn’t  go.  I cannot  remember 
that  we  ever  conspired  to  be  sleepy  after  dinner,  or  that  we 
ever  particularly  wanted  to  be  stupid,  and  to  have  flushed 
faces  and  hot  beating  heads,  or  to  find  blank  hopelessness 
and  obscurity  this  afternoon  in  what  would  become  perfectly 
clear  and  bright  in  the  freshness  of  to-morrow  morning.  We 
suffered  for  these  things,  and  they  made  us  miserable  enough. 
Neither  do  I remember  that  we  ever  bound  ourselves  by  any 
secret  oath  or  other  solemn  obligation,  to  find  the  seats 
getting  too  hard  to  be  sat  upon  after  a certain  time ; or  to 
have  intolerable  twitches  in  our  legs,  rendering  us  aggressive 
and  malicious  with  those  members ; or  to  be  troubled  with  a 
similar  uneasiness  in  our  elbows,  attended  with  fistic  conse- 
quences to  our  neighbors  ; or  to  carry  two  pounds  of  lead 
in  the  chest,  four  pounds  in  the  head,  and  several  active  blue- 
bottles in  each  ear.  Yet,  for  certain,  we  suffered  under  those 
distresses,  and  were  always  charged  at  for  laboring  under 
them,  as  if  we  had  brought  them  on,  of  our  own  deliberate 
act  and  deed.  As  to  the  mental  portion  of  them  being  my 
own  fault  in  my  own  case  — I should  like  to  ask  any  well- 


310 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


trained  and  experienced  teacher,  not  to  say  psychologist.  And 
as  to  the  physical  portion  — I should  like  to  ask  Professoh 
OWEN.’^ 

It  happened  that  I had  a small  bundle  of  papers  with  me, 
on  what  is  called  The  Half-Time  System  ’’  in  schools.  Ee- 
ferring  to  one  of  those  papers  I found  that  the  indefatigable 
Mr.  Chadwick  had  been  beforehand  with  me,  and  had  already 
asked  Professor  Owen : who  had  handsomely  replied  that  I 
was  not  to  blame,  but  that,  being  troubled  with  a skeleton, 
and  having  been  constituted  according  to  certain  natural  laws, 
I and  my  skeleton  were  unfortunately  bound  by  those  laws  — 
even  in  school  — and  had  comported  ourselves  accordingly. 
Much  comforted  by  the  good  Professor’s  being  on  my  side, 
I read  on  to  discover  whether  the  indefatigable  Mr.  Chadwick 
had  taken  up  the  mental  part  of  my  afflictions.  I found  that 
he  had,  and  that  he  had  gained  on  my  behalf.  Sir  Benjamin 
Brodie,  Sir  David  Wilkie,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  the 
common  sense  of  mankind.  For  which  I beg  Mr.  Chadwick, 
if  this  should  meet  his  eye,  to  accept  my  warm  acknowledg- 
ments. 

Up  to  that  time  I had  retained  a misgiving  that  the  seventy 
unfartunates  of  whom  I was  one,  must  have  been,  without 
knowing  it,  leagued  together  by  the  spirit  of  evil  in  a sort  of 
perpetual  Guy  Fawkes  Plot,  to  grope  about  in  vaults  with 
dark  lanterns  after  a certain  period  of  continuous  study.  But 
now  the  misgiving  vanished,  and  I floated  on  with  a quieted 
mind  to  see  the  Half-Time  System  in  action.  For  that  was 
the  purpose  of  my  journey,  both  by  steamboat  on  the  Thames, 
and  by  very  dirty  railway  on  the  shore.  To  which  last  insti- 
tution, I beg  to  recommend  the  legal  use  of  coke  as  engine- 
fuel,  rather  than  the  illegal  use  of  coal ; the  recommendation 
is  quite  disinterested,  for  I was  most  liberally  supplied  with 
small  coal  on  the  journey,  for  which  no  charge  was  made.  I 
had  not  only  my  eyes,  nose,  and  ears  filled,  but  my  hat,  and 
all  my  pockets,  and  my  pocket-book,  and  my  watch. 

The  V.D.S.C.K.C.  (or  Very  Dirty  and  Small  Coal  Eailway 
Company)  delivered  me  close  to  my  destination,  and  I soon 
found  the  Half-Time  System  established  in  spacious  premises, 
and  freely  placed  at  my  convenience  and  disposal. 


THE  UJSCOMMEliCIAL  TBAVELLEE. 


311 


What  would  I see  first  of  the  Half-Time  System  ? I chose 
Military  Drill.  Atteii — tion  ! Instantly  a hundred  boys 
stood  forth  in  the  paved  yard  as  one  boy  ; bright,  quick, 
eager,  steady,  watchful  for  the  look  of  command,  instant  and 
ready  for  the  word.  Not  only  was  there  complete  precision  — 
complete  accord  to  the  eye  and  to  the  ear  — but  an  alertness 
in  the  doing  of  the  thing  which  deprived  it,  curiously,  of  its 
monotonous  or  mechanical  character.  There  was  perfect  uni- 
formity, and  yet  an  individual  spirit  and  emulation.  No 
spectator  could  doubt  that  the  boys  liked  it.  With*  non- 
commissioned officers  varying  from  a yard  to  a yard  and  a 
half  high,  the  result  could  not  possibly  have  been  attained 
otherwise.  They  marched,  and  counter-marched,  and  formed 
in  line  and  square,  and  company,  and  single  file  and  double 
file,  and  performed  a variety  of  evolutions  ; all  most  admirably. 
In  respect  of  an  air  of  enjoyable  understanding  of  what  they 
were  about,  which  seems  to  be  forbidden  to  English  soldiers, 
the  boys  might  have  been  small  French  troops.  When  they 
were  dismissed  and  the  broadsword  exercise,  limited  to  a 
much  smaller  number,  succeeded,  the  boys  who  had  no  part  in 
that  new  drill,  either  looked  on  attentively,  or  disported  them- 
selves in  a gymnasium  hard  by.  The  steadiness  of  the  broad- 
sword boys  on  their  short  legs,  and  the  firmness  with  which 
they  sustained  the  different  positions,  was  truly  remarkable. 

The  broadsword  exercise  over,  suddenly  there  was  great 
excitement  and  a rush.  Naval  Drill ! 

In  a corner  of  the  ground  stood  a decked  mimic  ship,  with 
real  masts,  yards,  and  sails  — mainmast  seventy  feet  high. 
At  the  word  of  command  from  the  Skipper  of  this,  ship  — a 
mahogany-faced  Old  Salt,  with  the  indispensable  quid  in  his 
cheek,  the  true  nautical  roll,  and  all  wonderfully  complete  — 
the  rigging  was  covered  with  a swarm  of  boys : one,  the  first 
to  spring  into  the  shrouds,  outstripping  all  the  others,  and 
resting  on  the  truck  of  the  main-topmast  in  no  time. 

And  now  we  stood  out  to  sea,  in  a most  amazing  manner ; 
the  Skipper  himself,  the  whole  crew,  the  Uncommercial,  and 
all  hands  present,  implicitly  believing  that  there  was  not  a 
moment  to  lose,  that  the  wind  had  that  instant  chopped  round 
and  sprung  up  fair,  and  that  we  were  away  on  a voyage  round 


312 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


the  world.  Get  all  sail  upon  her ! With  a will,  my  lads  ! 
Lay  out  upon  the  main-yard  there  ! Look  alive  at  the  weather 
earring  ! Cheery,  my  boys  ! Let  go  the  sheet  now  ! Stand 
by  at  the  braces,  you  ! With  a will,  aloft  there  ! Belay,  star- 
board watch  ! Fifer  ! Come  aft,  fifer,  and  give  ’em  a tune  ! 
Forthwith,  springs  up  fifer,  fife  in  hand  — smallest  boy  ever 
seen  — big  lump  on  temple,  having  lately  fallen  down  on  a 
paving-stone  — gives  ’em  a tune  with  all  his  might  and  main. 
Hooroar,  fifer  ! With  a will,  my  lads  ! Tip  ’em  a livelier  one, 
fifer  !.  Fifer  tips  ’em  a livelier  one,  and  excitement  increases. 
Shake  ’em  out,  my  lads  ! Well  done  ! There  you  have  her  ! 
Pretty,  pretty  ! Every  rag  upon  her  she  can  carry,  wind  right 
astarn,  and  ship  cutting  through  the  water  fifteen  knots  an 
hour ! 

At  this  favorable  moment  of  her  voyage,  I gave  the  alarm 
A man  overboard  ! ” (on  the  gravel),  but  he  was  immediately 
recovered,  none  the  worse.  Presently,  I observed  the  Skipper 
overboard,  but  forbore  to  mention  it,  as  he  seemed  in  no  wise 
disconcerted  by  the  accident.  Indeed,  I soon  came  to  regard 
the  Skipper  as  an  amphibious  creature,  for  he  was  so  perpetu- 
ally plunging  overboard  to  look  up  at  the  hands  aloft,  that  he 
was  oftener  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean  than  on  deck.  His 
pride  in  his  crew  on  those  occasions  was  delightful,  and  the 
conventional  unintelligibility  of  his  orders  in  the  ears  of 
uncommercial  land-lubbers  and  loblolly  boys,  though  they 
were  always  intelligible  to  the  crew,  was  hardly  less  pleasant. 
But  we  couldn’t  expect  to  go  on  in  this  way  forever ; dirty 
weather  came  on,  and  then  worse  weather,  and  when  we  least 
expected  it  we  got  into  tremendous  difficulties.  Screw  loose 
in  the  chart  perhaps  — something  certainly  wrong  somewhere 
— but  here  we  were  with  breakers  ahead,  my  lads,  driving 
head  on,  slap  on  a lee  shore  ! The  Skipper  broached  this  ter- 
rific announcement  in  such  great  agitation,  that  the  small  fifer, 
not  fifing  now,  but  standing  looking  on  near  the  wheel  with 
his  fife  under  his  arm,  seemed  for  the  moment  quite  unboyed, 
though  he  speedily  recovered  his  presence  of  mind.  In  the 
trying  circumstances  that  ensued,  the  Skipper  and  the  crew 
proved  worthy  of  one  another.  The  Skipper  got  dreadfully 
hoarse,  but  otherwise  was  master  of  the  situation.  The  man 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


313 


at  the  wheel  did  wonders ; all  hands  (except  the  fifer)  were 
turned  up  to  wear  ship ; and  I observed  the  fifer,  when  we 
were  at  our  greatest  extremity,  to  refer  to  some  document  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  which  I conceived  to  be  his  will.  I think 
she  struck.  I was  not  myself  conscious  of  any  collision,  but  I 
saw  the  Skipper  so  very  often  washed  overboard  and  back 
again,  that  I could  only  impute  it  to  the  beating  of  the  ship. 
I am  not  enough  of  a seaman  to  describe  the  manoeuvres  by 
which  we  were  saved,  but  they  made  the  Skipper  very  hot 
(French  polishing  his  mahogany  face)  and  the  crew  very 
nimble,  and  succeeded  to  a marvel;  for,  within  a few  minutes 
of  the  first  alarm,  we  had  wore  ship  and  got  her  off,  and  were 
all  a-taunto  — which  I felt  very  grateful  for : not  that  I knew 
what  it  was,  but  that  I perceived  that  we  had  not  been  all 
a-taunto  lately.  Land  now  appeared  on  our  weather-bow,  and 
we  shaped  our  course  for  it,  having  the  wind  abeam,  and  fre- 
quently changing  the  man  at  the  helm,  in  order  that  every 
man  might  have  his  spell.  We  worked  into  harbor  under 
prosperous  circumstances,  and  furled  our  sails,  and  squared  our 
yards,  and  made  all  shipshape  and  handsome,  and  so  our  voyage 
ended.  When  I complimented  the  Skipper  at  parting  on  his 
exertions  and  those  of  his  gallant  crew,  he  informed  me  that 
the  latter  were  provided  for  the  worst,  all  hands  being  taught 
to  swim  and  dive ; and  he  added  that  the  able  seaman  at  the 
main-topmast  truck  especially,  could  dive  as  deep  as  he  could 
go  high. 

The  next  adventure  that  befell  me  in  my  visit  to  the  Short- 
Timers,  was  the  sudden  apparition  of  a military  band.  I had 
been  inspecting  the  hammocks  of  the  crew  of  the  good  ship, 
when  I saw  with  astonishment  that  several  musical  instru- 
ments, brazen  and  of  great  size,  appeared  to  have  suddenly 
developed  two  legs  each,  and  to  be  trotting  about  a yard.  And 
my  astonishment  was  heightened  when  I observed  a large 
drum,  that  had  previously  been  leaning  helpless  against  a 
wall,  taking  up  a stout  position  on  four  legs.  Approaching 
this  drum  and  looking  over  it,  I found  two  boys  behind  it  (it 
was  too  much  for  one),  and  then  I found  that  each  of  the 
brazen  instruments  had  brought  out  a boy,  and  was  going  to 
discourse  sweet  sounds.  The  boys  — not  omitting  the  fifer, 


314 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


now  playing  a new  instrument  — were  dressed  in  neat  uniform, 
and  stood  up  in  a circle  at  their  music-stands,  like  any  other 
Military  Band.  They  played  a march  or  two,  and  then  we 
had  Cheer  boys.  Cheer,  and  then  we  had  Yankee  Doodle,  and 
we  finished,  as  in  loyal  duty  bound,  with  God  Save  the  Queen. 
The  band’s  proficiency  was  perfectly  wonderful,  and  it  was  not 
at  all  wonderful  that  the  whole  body  corporate  of  Short-Timers 
listened  with  faces  of  the  liveliest  interest  and  pleasure. 

What  happened  next  among  the  Short-Timers  ? As  if  the 
band  had  blown  me  into  a great  class-room  out  of  their  brazen 
tubes,  in  a great  class-room  I found  myself  now,  with  the 
whole  choral  force  of  Short-Timers  singing  the  praises  of  a 
summer’s  day  to  the  harmonium,  and  my  small  but  highly- 
respected  friend  the  fifer  blazing  away  vocally,  as  if  he  had 
been  saving  up  his  wind  for  the  last  twelvemonth ; also  the 
whole  crew  of  the  good  ship  Nameless  swarming  up  and  down 
the  scale  as  if  they  had  never  swarmed  up  and  down  the  rig- 
ging. This  done,  we  threw  our  whole  power  into  God  bless 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  blessed  his  Eoyal  Highness  to  such 
an  extent  that,  for  my  own  Uncommercial  part,  I gasped  again 
when  it  was  over.  The  moment  this  was  done,  we  formed, 
with  surpassing  freshness,  into  hollow  squares,  and  fell  to 
work  at  oral  lessons,  as  if  we  never  did,  and  had  never  thought 
of  doing,  anything  else. 

Let  a veil  be  drawn  over  the  self-committals  into  which  the 
Uncommercial  Traveller  would  have  been  betrayed  but  for  a 
discreet  reticence,  coupled  with  an  air  of  absolute  wisdom  on 
the  part  of  that  artful  personage.  Take  the  square  of  five, 
multiply  it  by  fifteen,  divide  it  by  three,  deduct  eight  from  it, 
add  four  dozen  to  it,  give  me  the  result  in  pence,  and  tell  me 
how  many  eggs  I could  get  for  it  at  three  farthings  apiece. 
The  problem  is  hardly  stated,  when  a dozen  small  boys  pour 
out  answers.  Some  wide,  some  very  nearly  right,  some  worked 
as  far  as  they  go  with  such  accuracy,  as  at  once  to  show  what 
link  of  the  chain  has  been  dropped  in  the  hurry.  For  the 
moment,  none  are  quite  right ; but  behold  a laboring  spirit 
beating  the  buttons  on  its  corporeal  waistcoat,  in  a process  of 
internal  calculation,  and  knitting  an  accidental  bump  on  its 
corporeal  forehead  in  a concentration  of  mental  arithmetic ! 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


315 


It  is  my  honorable  friend  (if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so) 
the  fifer.  With  right  arm  eagerly  extended  in  token  of  being 
inspired  with  an  answer,  and  with  right  leg  foremost,  the  fifer 
solves  the  mystery : then  recalls  both  arm  and  leg,  and  with 
bump  in  ambush  awaits  the  next  poser.  Take  the  square  of 
three,  multiply  it  by  seven,  divide  it  by  four,  add  fifty  to  it, 
take  thirteen  from  it,  multiply  it  by  two,  double  it,  give  me 
the  result  in  pence,  and  say  how  many  halfpence.  Wise  as  the 
serpent  is  the  four  feet  of  performer  on  the  nearest  approach 
to  that  instrument,  whose  right  arm  instantly  appears,  and 
quenches  this  arithmetical  fire.  Tell  me  something  about 
Great  Britain,  tell  me  something  about  its  principal  produc- 
tions, tell  me  something  about  its  ports,  tell  me  something 
about  its  seas  and  rivers,  tell  me  something  about  coal,  iron, 
cotton,  timber,  tin,  and  turpentine.  The  hollow  square  bristles 
with  extended  right  arms  ; but  ever  faithful  to  fact  is  the  lifer, 
ever  wise  as  the  serpent  is  the  performer  on  that  instrument, 
ever  prominently  buoyant  and  brilliant  are  all  members  of  the 
band.  I observe  the  player  of  the  cymbals  to  dash  at  a sound- 
ing answer  now  and  then  rather  than  not  cut  in  at  all ; but  I 
take  that  to.be  in  the  way  of  his  instrument.  All  these  ques- 
tions, and  many  such,  are  put  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  and 
by  one  who  has  never  examined  these  boys.  The  Uncommer- 
cial, invited  to  add  another,  falteringly  demands  how  many 
birthdays  a man  born  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  February  will 
have  had  on  completing  his  fiftieth  year  ? A general  percep- 
tion of  trap  and  pitfall  instantly  arises,  and  the  fifer  is  seen 
to  retire  behind  the  corduroys  of  his  next  neighbors,  as  per- 
ceiving special  necessity  for  collecting  himself  and  commun- 
ing with  his  mind.  Meanwhile,  the  wdsdom  of  the  serpent 
suggests  that  the  man  will  have  had  only  one  birthday  in  all 
that  time,  for  how  can  any  man  have  more  than  one,  seeing 
that  he  is  born  once  and  dies  once  ? The  blushing  Uncommer- 
cial stands  corrected,  and  amends  the  formula.  Pondering 
ensues,  two  or  three  wrong  answers  are  offered,  and  Cymbals 
strikes  up  Six  ! but  doesn’t  know  why.  Then  modestly 
emerging  from  his  Academic  Grove  of  corduroys  appears  the 
fifer,  right  arm  extended,  right  leg  foremost^  bump  irradiated. 
Twelve,  and  two  over  ! ” 


316 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


The  feminine  Short-Timers  passed  a similar  examination, 
and  very  creditably  too.  Would  have  done  better  perhaps, 
with  a little  more  geniality  on  the  part  of  their  pupil-teacher ; 
for  a cold  eye,  my  young  friend,  and  a hard  abrupt  manner, 
are  not  by  any  means  the  powerful  engines  that  your  inno- 
cence supposes  them  to  be.  Both  girls  and  boys  wrote  excel- 
lently, from  copy  and  dictation ; both  could  cook ; both  could 
mend  their  own  clothes  ; both  could  clean  up  everything  about 
them  in  an  orderly  and  skilful  way,  the  girls  having  womanly 
household  knowledge  superadded.  Order  and  method  began 
in  the  songs  of  the  Infant  School  which  I visited  likewise, 
and  they  were  even  in  their  dwarf  degree  to  be  found  in  the 
Nursery,  where  the  Uncommercial  walking-stick  was  carried 
off  with  acclamations,  and  where  the  Doctor  ’’  — a medical 
gentleman  of  two,  who  took  his  degree  on  the  night  when  he 
was  found  at  an  apothecary’s  door  — did  the  honors  of  the 
establishment  with  great  urbanity  and  gayety. 

These  have  long  been  excellent  schools ; long  before  the 
days  of  the  Short-Time.  I first  saw  them,  twelve  or  fifteen 
years  ago.  But  since  the  introduction  of  the  Short-Time 
system  it  has  been  proved  here  that  eighteen  hours  a week  of 
book-learning  are  more  profitable  than  thirty-six,  and  that  the 
pupils  are  far  quicker  and  brighter  than  of  yore.  The  good 
influences  of  music  on  the  whole  body  of  children  have  like- 
wise been  surprisingly  proved.  Obviously  another  of  the 
immense  advantages  of  the  Short-Time  system  to  the  cause  of 
good  education  is  the  great  diminution  of  its  cost,  and  of  the 
period  of  time  over  which  it  extends.  The  last  is  a most 
important  consideration,  as  poor  parents  are  always  impatient 
to  profit  by  their  children’s  labor. 

It  will  be  objected : Firstly,  that  this  is  all  very  well,  but 
special  local  advantages  and  special  selection  of  children  must 
be  necessary  to  such  success.  Secondly,  that  this  is  all  very 
well,  but  must  be  very  expensive.  Thirdly,  that  this  is  all 
very  well,  but  we  have  no  proof  of  the  results,  sir,  no  proof. 

On  the  first  head  of  local  advantages  and  special  selection. 
Would  Limehouse  Hole  be  picked  out  for  the  site  of  a Cliil- 
dren’s  Paradise  ? Or  would  the  legitimate  and  illegitimate 
pauper  children  of  the  long-shore  population  of  such  a river- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


317 


side  district,  be  regarded  as  unusually  favorable  specimens  to 
work  with  ? Yet  these  schools  are  at  Limehcuse,  and  are  the 
Pauper  Schools  of  the  Stepney  Pauper  Union. 

On  the  second  head  of  expense.  Would  sixpence  a week 
be  considered  a very  large  cost  for  the  education  of  each  pupil, 
including  all  salaries  of  teachers  and  rations  of  teachers  ? 
But  supposing  the  cost  were  not  sixpence  a week,  not  five- 
pence  ? It  is  FOURPENCE-HALFPENNY. 

On  the  third  head  of  no  proof,  sir,  no  proof.  Is  there  any 
proof  in  the  facts  that  Pupil  Teachers  more  in  number,  and 
more  highly  qualified,  have  been  produced  here  under  the 
Short-Time  system  than  under  the  Long-Time  system  ? That 
the  Short-Timers,  in  a writing  competition,  beat  the  Long- 
Timers  of  a first-class  National  School  ? That  the  sailor-boys 
are  in  such  demand  for  merchant  ships,  that  whereas,  before 
they  were  trained,  10^.  premium  used  to  be  given  with  each 
boy  — too  often  to  some  greedy  brute  of  a drunken  skipper, 
who  disappeared  before  the  term  of  apprenticeship  was  out,  if 
the  ill-used  boy  didn’t  — captains  of  the  best  character  now 
take  these  boys  more  than  willingly,  with  no  premium  at  all  ? 
Tliat  they  are  also  much  esteemed  in  the  Koyal  Navy,  which 
they  prefer,  because  everything  is  so  neat  and  clean  and 
orderly  ? ” Or,  is  there  any  proof  in  Naval  captains  writing. 
Your  little  fellows  are  all  that  I can  desire  ? ” Or,  is  there 
any  proof  in  such  testimony  as  this  : The  owner  of  a vessel 
called  at  the  school,  and  said  that  as  his  ship  was  going  down 
Channel  on  her  last  voyage,  with  one  of  the  boys  from  the 
school  on  board,  the  pilot  said,  ^ It  would  be  as  well  if  the 
royal  were  lowered ; I wish  it  were  down.’  Without  waiting 
for  any  orders,  and  unobserved  by  the  pilot,  the  lad,  whom 
they  had  taken  on  board  from  the  school,  instantly  mounted 
the  mast  and  lowered  the  royal,  and  at  the  next  glance  of  the 
pilot  to  the  masthead,  he  perceived  that  the  sail  had  been  let 
down.  He  exclaimed  ^ Who’s  done  that  job?’  The  owner, 
who  was  on  board,  said,  ^ That  was  the  little  fellow  whom  I 
put  on  board  two  days  ago.’  The  pilot  immediately  said, 
^ Why,  where  could  he  have  been  brought  up  ? ’ That  boy 
had  never  seen  the  sea  or  been  on  a real  ship  before  ? ” Or, 
is  there  any  proof  in  these  boys  being  in  greater  demand  for 


318 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Regimental  Bands  than  the  Union  can  meet  ? Or,  in  ninety- 
eight  of  them  having  gone  into  Regimental  Bands  in  three 
years  ? Or,  in  twelve  of  them  being  in  the  band  of  one  regi- 
ment ? Or,  in  the  colonel  of  that  regiment  writing,  We 
want  six  more  boys ; they  are  excellent  lads  ? ’’  Or,  in  one 
of  the  boys  having  risen  to  be  band-corporal  in  the  same  regi- 
ment ? Or,  in  employers  of  all  kinds  chorusing,  Give  us 
drilled  boys,  for  they  are  prompt,  obedient,  and  punctual  ? 
Other  proofs  I have  myself  beheld  with  these  Uncommercial 
eyes,  though  I do  not  regard  myself  as  having  a right  to  re- 
late in  what  social  positions  they  have  seen  respected  men  and 
women  who  were  once  pauper  children  of  the  Stepney  Union. 

Into  what  admirable  soldiers  others  of  these  boys  have  the 
capabilities  for  being  turned,  I need  not  point  out.  Many  of 
them  are  always  ambitious  of  military  service ; and  once  upon 
a time  when  an  old  boy  came  back  to  see  the  old  place,  a cav- 
alry soldier  all  complete,  with  his  spurs  on,  such  a yearning 
broke  out  to  get  into  cavalry  regiments  and  wear  those  sub- 
lime appendages,  that  it  was  one  of  the  greatest  excitements 
ever  known  in  the  school.  The  girls  make  excellent  domestic 
servants,  and  at  certain  periods  come  back,  a score  or  two  at 
a time,  to  see  the  old  building,  and  to  take  tea  with  the  old 
teachers,  and  to  hear  the  old  band,  and  see  the  old  ship  with 
her  masts  towering  up  above  the  neighboring  roofs  and 
chimneys.  As  to  the  physical  health  of  these  schools,  it  is  so 
exceptionally  remarkable  (simply  because  the  sanitary  regu- 
lations are  as  good  as  the  other  educational  arrangements), 
that  when  Mr,  Tufnell,  the  Inspector,  first  stated  it  in  a 
report,  he  was  supposed,  in  spite  of  his  high  character,  to 
have  been  betrayed  into  some  extraordinary  mistake  or  exag- 
geration. In  the  moral  health  of  these  schools  — where  cor- 
poral punishment  is  unknown  — Truthfulness  stands  high. 
When  the  ship  was  first  erected,  the  boys  were  forbidden  to 
go  aloft,  until  the  nets,  which  are  now  always  there,  were 
stretched  as  a precaution  against  accidents.  Certain  boys,  in 
their  eagerness,  disobeyed  the  injunction,  got  out  of  window 
in  the  early  daylight,  and  climbed  to  the  masthead.  One  boy 
unfortunately  fell,  and  was  killed.  There  was  no  clew  to  the 
others ; but  all  the  boys  were  assembled,  and  the  chairman  of 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


319 


the  Board  addressed  them.  I promise  nothing ; you  see  what 
a dreadful  thing  has  happened  ; you  know  what  a grave  offence 
it  is  that  has  led  to  such  a consequence ; I cannot  say  what 
will  be  done  with  the  offenders ; but,  hoys,  you  have  been 
trained  here,  above  all  things,  to  respect  the  truth.  I want 
the  truth.  Who  are  the  delinquents  ? Instantly,  the  whole 
number  of  boys  concerned,  separated  from  the  rest,  and  stood 
out. 

Now,  the  head  and  heart  of  that  gentleman  (it  is  needless 
to  say,  a good  head  and  a good  heart)  have  been  deeply  inter- 
ested in  these  schools  for  many  years,  and  are  so  still ; and 
the  establishment  is  very  fortunate  in  a most  admirable  mas- 
ter, and  moreover  the  schools  of  the  Stepney  Union  cannot 
have  got  to  be  what  they  are,  without  the  Stepney  Board  of 
Guardians  having  been  earnest  and  humane  men,  strongly 
imbued  with  a sense  of  their  responsibility.  But  what  one 
set  of  men  can  do  in  this  wise,  another  set  of  men  can  do ; 
and  this  is  a noble  example  to  all  other  Bodies  and  Unions, 
and  a noble  example  to  the  State.  Followed,  and  enlarged 
upon  by  its  enforcement  on  bad  parents,  it  would  clear  Lon- 
don streets  of  the  most  terrible  objects  they  smite  the  sight 
with  — myriads  of  little  children  who  awfully  reverse  Our 
Saviour’s  words,  and  are  not  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  but 
of  the  Kingdom  of  Hell. 

Clear  the  public  streets  of  such  shame,  and  the  public  con- 
science of  such  reproach  ? Ah ! Almost  prophetic,  surely, 
the  child’s  jingle : — 

When  will  that  be, 

Say  the  bells  of  Step-ney! 


320 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLEB. 


XXX. 

A SMALL  STAR  IN  THE  EAST. 

I HAD  been  looking,  yesternight,  through  the  famous 
Dance  of  Death,’^  and  to-day  the  grim  old  woodcuts  arose 
in  my  mind  with  the  new  significance  of  a ghastly  monotony 
not  to  be  found  in  the  original.  The  weird  skeleton  rattled 
along  the  streets  before  me,  and  struck  fiercely ; but  it  was 
never  at  the  pains  of  assuming  a disguise.  It  played  on  no 
dulcimer  here,  was  crowned  with  no  flowers,  waved  no 
plume,  minced  in  no  flowing  robe  or  train,  lifted  no  wine- 
cup,  sat  at  no  feast,  cast  no  dice,  counted  no  gold.  It  was 
simply  a bare,  gaunt,  famished  skeleton,  slaying  his  way 
along. 

The  borders  of  Eatcliff  and  Stepney,  eastward  of  London, 
and  giving  on  the  impure  river,  were  the  scene  of  this  uncom- 
promising dance  of  death,  upon  a drizzling  Xovember  day. 
A squalid  maze  of  streets,  courts,  and  alleys  of  miserable 
houses  let  out  in  single  rooms.  A wilderness  of  dirt,  rags, 
and  hunger.  A mud-desert,  chiefly  inhabited  by  a tribe  from 
whom  employment  has  departed,  or  to  whom  it  comes  but 
fitfully  and  rarely.  They  are  not  skilled  mechanics  in  any 
wise.  They  are  but  laborers,  — dock-laborers,  water-side 
laborers,  coal-porters,  ballast-heavers,  such  like  hewers  of 
wood  and  drawers  of  water.  But  they  have  come  into  exist- 
ence, and  they  propagate  their  wretched  race. 

One  grisly  joke  alone,  methought,  the  skeleton  seemed  to 
play  off  here.  It  had  stuck  election-bills  on  the  walls,  which 
the  wind  and  rain  had  deteriorated  into  suitable  rags.  It 
had  even  summed  up  the  state  of  the  poll,  in  chalk,  on  the 
shutters  of  one  ruined  house.  It  adjured  the  free  and  inde- 
pendent starvers  to  vote  for  Thisman  and  vote  for  Thatman  ; 
not  to  plump,  as  they  valued  the  state  of  parties  and  the 
national  prosperity  (both  of  great  importance  to  them,  I 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


321 


think)  ; but^  by  returning  Thisman  and  Thatman,  each  naught 
without  the  other,  to  compound  a glorious  and  immortal 
w^hole.  Surely  the  skeleton  is  nowhere  more  cruelly  ironical 
in  the  original  monkish  idea ! 

Pondering  in  my  mind  the  far-seeing  schemes  of  Thisman 
and  Thatman,  and  of  the  public  blessing  called  Party,  for 
staying  the  degeneracy,  physical  and  moral,  of  many  thou- 
sands (who  shall  say  how  many  ?)  of  the  English  race ; for 
devising  employment  useful  to  the  community  for  those  who 
want  but  to  work  and  live ; for  equalizing  rates,  cultivating 
waste  lands,  facilitating  emigration,  and,  above  all  things, 
saving  and  utilizing  the  oncoming  generations,  and  thereby 
changing  ever-growing  national  weakness  into  strength ; pon- 
dering in  my  mind,  I say,  these  hopeful  exertions,  I turned 
down  a narrow  street  to  look  into  a house  or  two. 

It  was  a dark  street  with  a dead  wall  on  one  side.  Nearly 
all  the  outer  doors  of  the  houses  stood  open.  I took  the  first 
entry,  and  knocked  at  a parlor-door.  Might  I come  in  ? I 
might,  if  I plased,  sur. 

The  woman  of  the  room  (Irish)  had  picked  up  some  long 
strips  of  wood,  about  some  wharf  or  barge;  and  they  had  just 
now  been  thrust  into  the  otherwise  empty  grate  to  make  two 
iron  pots  boil.  There  was  some  fish  in  one,  and  there  were 
some  potatoes  in  the  other.  The  flare  of  the  burning  wood 
enabled  me  to  see  a table,  and  a broken  chair  or  so,  and  some 
old  cheap  crockery  ornaments  about  the  chimney-piece.  It 
was  not  until  I had  spoken  with  the  woman  a few  minutes, 
that  I saw  a horrible  brown  heap  on  the  floor  in  a corner, 
which,  but  for  previous  experience  in  this  dismal  wise,  I might 
not  have  suspected  to  be  ^^the  bed.’’  There  was  something 
thrown  upon  it ; and  I asked  what  that  was. 

^^’Tis  the  poor  craythur  that  stays  here,  sur;  and  ’tis 
very  bad  she  is,  and  ’tis  very  bad  she’s  been  this  long 
time,  and  ’tis  better  she’ll  never  be,  and  ’tis  slape  she  does 
all  day,  and  ’tis  wake  she  does  all  night,  and  ’tis  the  lead, 
sur.” 

The  what  ? ” 

The  lead,  sur.  Sure  ’tis  the  lead-mills,  where  the  women 
gets  took  on  at  eighteen-pence  a day,  sur,  when  they  makes 


322 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


ajDplication  early  enougli,  and  is  lucky  and  wanted;  and  ’tis 
lead-pisoned  she  is,  sur,  and  some  of  them  gets  lead-pisoned 
soon,  and  some  of  them  gets  lead-pisoned  later,  and  some,  but 
not  many,  niver ; and  ^tis  all  according  to  the  constitooshun, 
sur,  and  some  constitooshuns  is  strong,  and  some  is  weak; 
and  her  constitooshun  is  lead-pisoned,  bad  as  can  be,  sur; 
and  her  brain  is  coming  out  at  her  ear,  and  it  hurts  her 
dreadful ; and  that’s  what  it  is,  and  niver  no  more,  and  niver 
no  less,  sur.” 

The  sick  young  woman  moaning  here,  the  speaker  bent 
over  her,  took  a bandage  from  her  head,  and  threw  open  a 
back  door  to  let  in  the  daylight  upon  it,  from  the  smallest 
and  most  miserable  back-yard  I ever  saw. 

That’s  what  cooms  from  her,  sur,  being  lead-pisoned ; 
and  it  cooms  from  her  night  and  day,  the  poor,  sick  craythur ; 
and  the  pain  of  it  is  dreadful ; and  God  he  knows  that  my 
husband  has  walked  the  sthreets  these  four  days,  being  a 
laborer,  and  is  walking  them  now,  and  is  ready  to  work,  and 
no  work  for  him,  and  no  fire  and  no  food  but  the  bit  in  the 
pot,  and  no  more  than  ten  shillings  in  a fortnight ; God  be 
good  to  us  ! and  it  is  poor  we  are,  and  dark  it  is  and  could  it 
is  indeed.” 

Knowing  that  I could  compensate  myself  thereafter  for  my 
self-denial,  if  I saw  fit,  I had  resolved  that  I would  give 
nothing  in  the  course  of  these  visits.  I did  this  to  try  the 
people.  I may  state  at  once  that  my  closest  observation  could 
not  detect  any  indication  whatever  of  an  expectation  that  I 
would  give  money : they  were  grateful  to  be  talked  to  about 
their  miserable  affairs,  and  sympathy  was  plainly  a comfort 
to  them  ; but  they  neither  asked  for  money  in  any  case,  nor 
showed  the  least  trace  of  surprise  or  disappointment  or  resent- 
ment at  my  giving  none. 

The  woman’s  married  daughter  had  by  this  time  come 
down  from  her  room  on  the  floor  above,  to  join  in  the  con- 
versation. She  herself  had  been  in  the  lead-mills  very  early 
that  morning  to  be  ^^took  on,”  but  had  not  succeeded.  She 
had  four  children ; and  her  husband,  also  a water-side  laborer, 
and  then  out  seeking  work,  seemed  in  no  better  case  as  to 
finding  it  than  her  father.  She  was  English,  and  by  nature 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


323 


of  a buxom  figure  and  cheerful.  Both  in  her  poor  dress  and 
in  her  mother’s  there  was  an  effort  to  keep  up  some  appear- 
ance of  neatness.  She  knew  all  about  the  sufferings  of  the 
unfortunate  invalid,  and  all  about  the  lead-poisoning,  and 
how  the  symptoms  came  on,  and  how  they  grew,  — having 
often  seen  them.  The  very  smell  when  you  stood  inside  the 
door  of  the  works  was  enough  to  knock  you  down,  she  said  : 
yet  she  was  going  back  again  to  get  took  on.”  What  could 
she  do  ? Better  be  ulcerated  and  paralyzed  for  eighteen- 
pence  a day,  while  it  lasted,  than  see  the  children  starve. 

A dark  and  squalid  cupboard  in  this  room,  touching  the 
back  door  and  all  manner  of  offence,  had  been  for  some  time 
the  sleeping-place  of  the  sick  young  woman.  But  the  nights 
being  now  wintry,  and  the  blankets  and  coverlets  gone  to 
the  leaving  shop,”  she  lay  all  night  where  she  lay  all  day, 
and  was  lying  then.  The  woman  of  the  room,  her  husband, 
this  most  miserable  patient,  and  two  others,  lay  on  the  one 
brown  heap  together  for  warmth. 

God  bless  you,  sir,  and  thank  you  ! ” were  the  parting 
words  from  these  people,  — gratefully  spoken  too,  — with 
which  I left  this  place. 

Some  streets  away,  I tapped  at  another  parlor-door  on 
another  ground  floor.  Looking  in,  I found  a man,  his  wife, 
and  four  children,  sitting  at  a washing-stool  by  way  of  table, 
at  their  dinner  of  bread  and  infused  tea-leaves.  There  was 
a very  scanty  cinderous  fire  in  the  grate  by  which  they  sat ; 
and  there  was  a tent  bedstead  in  the  room  with  a bed  upon  it 
and  a coverlet.  The  man  did  not  rise  when  I went  in,  nor 
during  my  stay,  but  civilly  inclined  his  head  on  my  pulling 
off  my  hat,  and,  in  answer  to  my  inquiry  whether  I might 
ask  him  a question  or  two,  said,  Certainly.”  There  being 
a window  at  each  end  of  this  room,  back  and  front,  it  might 
have  been  ventilated ; but  it  was  shut  up  tight,  to  keep  the 
cold  out,  and  was  very  sickening. 

The  wife,  an  intelligent,  quick  woman,  rose  and  stood  at 
her  husband’s  elbow ; and  he  glanced  up  at  her  as  if  for  help. 
It  soon  appeared  that  he  was  rather  deaf.  He  was  a slow, 
simple  fellow  of  about  thirty. 

What  was  he  by  trade  ? ” 


324 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


Gentleman  asks  what  are  you  by  trade,  John  ? ’’ 

‘‘1  am  a boilermaker  ; looking  about  him  with  an  exceed- 
ingly perplexed  air,  as  if  for  a boiler  that  had  unaccountably 
vanished. 

He  ain’t  a mechanic,  you  understand,  sir,”  the  wife  put 
in  : he’s  only  a laborer.” 

Are  you  in  work  ? ” 

He  looked  up  at  his  wife  again.  Gentleman  says  are  you 
in  work,  John  ? ” 

“ In  work  ! ” cried  this  forlorn  boilermaker,  staring  aghast 
at  his  wife,  and  then  working  his  vision’s  way  very  slowly 
round  to  me  : Lord,  no  ! ” 

‘‘  Ah,  he  ain’t  indeed  ! ” said  the  poor  woman,  shaking  her 
head,  as  she  looked  at  the  four  children  in  succession,  and 
then  at  him. 

Work ! ” said  the  boilermaker,  still  seeking  that  evapo- 
rated boiler,  first  in  my  countenance,  then  in  the  air,  and  then 
in  the  features  of  his  second  son  at  his  knee : I wish  I was 
in  work  ! I haven’t  had  more  than  a day’s  work  to  do  this 
three  weeks.” 

How  have  you  lived  ? ” 

A faint  gleam  of  admiration  lighted  up  the  face  of  the 
would-be  boilermaker,  as  he  stretched  out  the  short  sleeve  of 
his  threadbare  canvas  jacket,  and  replied,  pointing  her  out, 
On  the  work  of  the  wife.” 

I forget  where  boilermaking  had  gone  to,  or  where  he 
supposed  it  had  gone  to;  but  he  added  some  resigned  in- 
formation on  that  head,  coupled  with  an  expression  of  his 
belief  that  it  was  never  coming  back. 

The  cheery  helpfulness  of  the  wife  was  very  remarkable. 
She  did  slop-work ; made  pea-jackets.  She  produced  the 
pea-jacket  then  in  hand,  and  spread  it  out  upon  the  bed,  — 
the  only  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room  on  which  to  spread  it. 
She  showed  how  much  of  it  she  made,  and  how  much  was 
afterwards  finished  off  by  the  machine.  According  to  her 
calculation  at  the  moment,  deducting  what  her  trimming 
cost  her,  she  got  for  making  a pea-jacket  tenpence  half-penny, 
and  she  could  make  one  in  something  less  than  two  days. 

But,  you  see,  it  come  to  her  through  two  hands,  and  of 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TBAVELLEB. 


325 


course  it  didn’t  come  through  the  second  hand  for  nothing. 
Why  did  it  come  through  the  second  hand  at  all  ? Why, 
this  way.  The  second  hand  took  the  risk  of  the  given-out 
work,  you  see.  If  she  had  money  enough  to  pay  the  secu- 
rity deposit,  — call  it  two  pound,  — she  could  get  the  work 
from  the  first  hand,  and  so  the  second  would  not  have  to  be 
deducted  for.  But,  having  no  money  at  all,  the  second  hand 
come  ill  and  took  its  profit,  and  so  the  whole  worked  down  to 
tenpence  half-penny.  Having  explained  all  this  with  great 
intelligence,  even  with  some  little  pride,  and  without  a whine 
or  murmur,  she  folded  her  work  again,  sat  down  by  her 
husband’s  side  at  the  washing-stool,  and  resumed  her  dinner  of 
dry  bread.  Mean  as  the  meal  was,  on  the  bare  board,  with 
its  old  gallipots  for  cups,  and  what  not  other  sordid  make- 
shifts ; shabby  as  the  woman  was  in  dress,  and  toning  down 
towards  the  Bosjesman  color,  with  want  of  nutriment  and 
washing, — there  was  positively  a dignity  in  her,  as  the  family 
anchor  just  holding  the  poor  shipwrecked  boilermaker’s  bark. 
When  I left  the  room,  the  boilermaker’s  eyes  were  slowly 
turned  towards  her,  as  if  his  last  hope  of  ever  again  seeing 
that  vanished  boiler  lay  in  her  direction. 

These  people  had  never  applied  for  parish  relief  but  once  ; 
and  that  was  when  the  husband  met  with  a disabling  accident 
at  his  work. 

Hot  many  doors  from  here,  I went  into  a room  on  the  first 
floor.  The  woman  apologized  for  its  being  in  ^^an  untidy 
mess.”  The  day  was  Saturday,  and  she  was  boiling  the 
children’s  clothes  in  a saucepan  on  the  hearth.  There  was 
nothing  else  into  which  she  could  have  put  them.  There  was 
no  crockery,  or  tinware,  or  tub,  or  bucket.  There  was  an 
old  gallipot  or  two,  and  there  was  a broken  bottle  or  so,  and 
there  were  some  broken  boxes  for  seats.  The  last  small 
scraping  of  coals  left  was  raked  together  in  a corner  of  the 
floor.  There  were  some  rags  in  an  open  cupboard,  also  on 
the  floor.  In  a corner  of  the  room  was  a crazy  old  French 
bedstead,  with  a man  lying  on  his  back  upon  it  in  a ragged 
pilot  jacket,  and  rough  oilskin  fantail  hat.  The  room  was 
perfectly  black.  It  was  difficult  to  believe,  at  first,  that  it 
was  not  purposely  colored  black,  the  walls  were  so  begrimed. 


326 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


As  I stood  opposite  the  woman  boiling  the  ^ children’s 
clothes,  — she  had  not  even  a piece  of  soap  to  wash  them 
with,  — and  apologizing  for  her  occupation,  I could  take  in 
all  these  things  without  appearing  to  notice  them,  and  could 
even  correct  my  inventory.  I had  missed,  at  the  first  glance, 
some  half  a pound  of  bread  in  the  otherwise  empty  safe,  an  old 
red  ragged  crinoline  hanging  on  the  handle  of  the  door  by 
which  I had  entered,  and  certain  fragments  of  rusty  iron 
scattered  on  the  floor,  which  looked  like  broken  tools  and  a 
piece  of  stove-pipe.  A child  stood  looking  on.  On  the  box 
nearest  to  the  fire  sat  two  younger  children ; one  a delicate 
and  pretty  little  creature,  whom  the  other  sometimes  kissed. 

This  woman,  like  the  last,  was  wofully  shabby,  and  was 
degenerating  to  the  Bosjesman  complexion.  But  her  figure, 
and  the  ghost  of  a certain  vivacity  about  her,  and  the  spectre 
of  a dimple  in  her  cheek,  carried  my  memory  strangely  back 
to  the  old  days  of  the  Adelphi  Theatre,  London,  when  Mrs. 
Fitzwilliam  was  the  friend  of  Victorine. 

May  I ask  you  what  your  husband  is  ? ” 

He’s  a coal-porter,  sir,”  — with  a glance  and  a sigh  towards 
the  bed. 

Is  he  out  of  work  ? ” 

Oh,  yes,  sir ! and  work’s  at  all  times  very,  very  scanty 
with  him  ; and  now  he’s  laid  up.” 

It’s  ni}^  legs,”  said  the  man  upon  the  bed.  I’ll  unroll 
’em.”  And  immediately  began. 

Have  you  any  older  children  ? ” 

I have  a daughter  that  does  the  needle-work,  and  I have  a 
son  that  does  what  he  can.  She’s  at  her  work  now,  and  he’s 
trying  for  work.” 

Do  they  live  here  ? ” 

^^They  sleep  here.  They  can’t  afford  to  pay  more  rent, 
and  so  they  come  here  at  night.  The  rent  is  very  hard  upon 
us.  It’s  rose  upon  us  too,  now,  — sixpence  a week,  — on  ac- 
count of  these  new  changes  in  the  law,  about  the  rates.  We 
are  a week  behind ; the  landlord’s  been  shaking  and  rattling 
at  that  door  frightfully ; he  says  he’ll  turn  us  out.  I don’t 
know  what’s  to  come  of  it.” 

The  man  upon  the  bed  ruefully  interposed,  Here’s  my 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


327 


legs.  The  skin’s  broke,  besides  the  swelling.  I have  had  a 
many  kicks,  working,  one  way  and  another.” 

He  looked  at  his  legs  (which  were  much  discolored  and 
misshapen)  for  a while,  and  then  appearing  to  remember 
that  they  were  not  popular  with  his  family,  rolled  them  up 
again,  as  if  they  were  something  in  the  nature  of  maps  or 
plans  that  were  not  wanted  to  be  referred  to,  lay  hopelessly 
down  on  his  back  once  more  with  his  fantail  hat  over  his 
face,  and  stirred  not. 

Do  your  eldest  son  and  daughter  sleep  in  that  cupboard  ? ” 

^^Yes,”  replied  the  woman. 

With  the  children  ? ” 

^^Yes.  We  have  to  get  together  for  warmth.  We  have 
little  to  cover  us.” 

Have  you  nothing  by  you  to  eat  but  the  piece  of  bread 
I see  there  ? ” 

Hothing.  And  we  had  the  rest  of  the  loaf  for  our  break- 
fast, with  water.  I don’t  know  what’s  to  come  of  it.” 

Have  you  no  prospect  of  improvement  ? ” 

If  my  eldest  son  earns  anything  to-day,  he’ll  bring  it 
home.  Then  we  shall  have  something  to  eat  to-night,  and 
may  be  able  to  do  something  towards  the  rent.  If  not,  I 
don’t  know  what’s  to  come  of  it.” 

This  is  a sad  state  of  things.” 

Yes,  sir;  it’s  a hard,  hard  life.  Take  care  of  the  stairs 
as  you  go,  sir,  — they’re  broken,  — and  good-day,  sir ! ” 

These  people  had  a mortal  dread  of  entering  the  workhouse, 
and  received  no  out-of-door  relief. 

In  another  room,  in  still  another  tenement,  I found  a very 
decent  woman  with  live  children,  — the  last  a baby,  and  she 
herself  a patient  of  the  parish  doctor,  — to  whom,  her  hus- 
band being  in  the  hospital,  the  Union  allowed  for  the  sup- 
port of  herself  and  family,  four  shillings  a week  and  five 
loaves.  I suppose  when  Thisman,  M.P.,  and  Thatman,  M.P., 
and  the  Public-blessing  Party,  lay  their  heads  together  in 
course  of  time,  and  come  to  an  equalization  of  rating,  she 
may  go  down  to  the  dance  of  death  to  the  tune  of  sixpence 
more. 

I could  enter  no  other  houses  for  that  one  while,  for  I 


328 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


could  not  bear  the  contemplation  of  the  children.  Such 
heart  as  I had  summoned  to  sustain  me  against  the  miseries 
of  the  adults  failed  me  when  I looked  at  the  children.  I 
saw  how  young  they  were,  how  hungry,  how  serious  and 
still.  I thought  of  them,  sick  and  dying  in  those  lairs.  I 
think  of  them  dead  without  anguish ; but  to  think  of  them  so 
suffering  and  so  dying  quite  unmanned  me. 

Down  by  the  river’s  bank  in  Ratcliff,  I was  turning  up- 
ward by  a side-street,  therefore,  to  regain  the  railway,  when 
my  eyes  rested  on  the  inscription  across  the  road,  ^^East 
London  Children’s  Hospital.”  I could  scarcely  have  seen 
an  inscription  better  suited  to  my  frame  of  mind ; and  I went 
across  and  went  straight  in. 

I found  the  children’s  hospital  established  in  an  old  sail- 
loft  or  storehouse,  of  the  roughest  nature,  and  on  the  simplest 
means.  There  were  trap-doors  in  the  floors,  where  goods 
had  been  hoisted  up  and  down ; heavy  feet  and  heavy  weights 
had  started  every  knot  in  the  well-trodden  planking : in- 
convenient bulks  and  beams  and  awkward  staircases  per- 
plexed my  passage  through  the  wards.  But  I found  it  airy, 
sweet,  and  clean.  In  its  seven  and  thirty  beds  I saw  but 
little  beauty;  for  starvation  in  the  second  or  third  genera- 
tion takes  a pinched  look  : but  I saw  the  sufferings  both  of 
infancy  and  childhood  tenderly  assuaged;  I heard  the  little 
patients  answering  to  pet  playful  names,  the  light  touch  of  a 
delicate  lady  laid  bare  the  wasted  sticks  of  arms  for  me  to 
pity ; and  the  claw-like  little  hands,  as  she  did  so,  twined 
themselves  lovingly  around  her  wedding-ring. 

One  baby  mite  there  was  as  pretty  as  any  of  Raphael’s 
angels.  The  tiny  head  was  bandaged  for  water  on  the 
brain  ; and  it  was  suffering  with  acute  bronchitis  too,  and 
made  from  time  to  time  a plaintive,  though  not  impatient  or 
complaining,  little  sound.  The  smooth  curve  of  the  cheeks  * 
and  of  the  chin  was  faultless  in  its  condensation  of  infantine 
beauty,  and  the  large  bright  eyes  were  most  lovely.  It  hap- 
pened as  I stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  that  these  eyes 
rested  upon  mine  with  that  wistful  expression  of  wondering 
thoughtfulness  which  we  all  know  sometimes  in  very  little 
children.  They  remained  fixed  on  mine,  and  never  turned 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


329 


from  me  while  I stood  there.  When  the  utterance  of  that 
plaintive  sound  shook  the  little  form,  the  gaze  still  remained 
unchanged.  I felt  as  though  the  child  implored  me  to  tell 
the  story  of  the  little  hospital  in  which  it  was  sheltered  to 
any  gentle  heart  I could  address.  Laying  my  world-worn 
hand  upon  the  little  unmarked  clasped  hand  at  the  chin,  I 
gave  it  a silent  promise  that  I would  do  so. 

A gentleman  and  lady,  a young  husband  and  wife,  have 
bought  and  fitted  up  this  building  for  its  present  noble  use, 
and  have  quietly  settled  themselves  in  it  as  its  medical  officers 
and  directors.  Both  have  had  considerable  practical  expe- 
rience of  medicine  and  surgery  ; he  as  house-surgeon  of  a 
great  London  hospital ; slie  as  a very  earnest  student,  tested 
by  severe  examination,  and  also  as  a nurse  of  the  sick  poor 
during  the  prevalence  of  cholera. 

With  every  qualification  to  lure  them  away,  with  youth 
and  accomplishments  and  tastes  and  habits  that  can  have 
no  response  in  any  breast  near  them,  close  begirt  by  every 
repulsive  circumstance  inseparable  from  such  a neighbor- 
hood, there  they  dwell.  They  live  in  the  hospital  itself,  and 
their  rooms  are  on  its  first  floor.  Sitting  at  their  dinner- 
table,  they  could  hear  the  cry  of  one  of  the  children  in  pain. 
The  lady’s  piano,  drawing-materials,  books,  and  other  such 
evidences  of  refinement  are  as  much  a part  of  the  rough  place 
as  the  iron  bedsteads  of  the  little  patients.  They  are  put  to 
shifts  for  room,  like  passengers  on  board  ship.  The  dispenser 
of  medicines  (attracted  to  them  not  by  self-interest,  but  by 
their  own  magnetism  and  that  of  their  cause)  sleeps  in  a 
recess  in  the  dining-room,  and  has  his  washing  apparatus  in 
the  sideboard. 

Their  contented  manner  of  making  the  best  of  the  things 
around  them,  I found  so  pleasantly  inseparable  from  their 
usefulness  ! Their  pride  in  this  partition  that  we  put  up 
ourselves,  or  in  that  partition  that  we  took  down,  or  in  that 
other  partition  that  we  moved,  or  in  the  stove  that  was  given 
us  for  the  waiting-room,  or  in  our  nightly  conversion  of  the 
little  consulting-room  into  a smoking-room  ! Their  admira- 
tion of  the  situation,  if  we  could  only  get  rid  of  its  one 
objectionable  incident,  the  coal-yard  at  the  back  ! Our 


330 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


hospital  carriage,  presented  by  a friend,  and  very  useful.’’ 
That  was  my  presentation  to  a perambulator,  for  which  a coach- 
house had  been  discovered  in  a corner  down-stairs,  just  large 
enough  to  hold  it.  Colored  prints,  in  all  stages  of  prepara- 
tion for  being  added  to  those  already  decorating  the  wards, 
were  plentiful ; a charming  wooden  phenomenon  of  a bird, 
with  an  impossible  top-knot  who  ducked  his  head  when  you 
set  a counter-weight  going,  had  been  inaugurated  as  a public 
statue  that  very  morning ; and  trotting  about  among  the 
beds,  on  familiar  terms  with  all  the  patients,  was  a comical 
mongrel  dog,  called  Poodles.  This  comical  dog  (quite  a 
tonic  in  himself)  was  found  characteristically  starving  at  the 
door  of  the  institution,  and  was  taken  in  and  fed,  and  has 
lived  here  ever  since.  An  admirer  of  his  mental  endow- 
ments has  presented  him  with  a collar  bearing  the  legend. 
Judge  not  Poodles  by  external  appearances.”  He  was 
merrily  wagging  his  tail  on  a boy’s  pillow  when  he  made  this 
modest  appeal  to  me. 

When  this  hospital  was  first  opened,  in  January  of  the 
present  year,  the  people  could  not  possibly  conceive  but  that 
somebody  paid  for  the  services  rendered  there ; and  were 
disposed  to  claim  them  as  a right,  and  to  find  fault  if  out  of 
temper.  They  soon  came  to  understand  the  case  better,  and 
have  much  increased  in  gratitude.  The  mothers  of  the 
patients  avail  themselves  very  freely  of  the  visiting  rules; 
the  fathers  often  on  Sundays.  There  is  an  unreasonable  (but 
still,  I think,  touching  and  intelligible)  tendency  in  the  parents 
to  take  a child  away  to  its  wretched  home,  if  on  the  point 
of  death.  One  boy  who  had  been  thus  carried  off  on  a rainy 
night,  when  in  a violent  state  of  inflammation,  and  who  had 
been  afterwards  brought  back,  had  been  recovered  with  ex- 
ceeding difficulty  ; but  he  was  a jolly  boy,  with  a specially 
strong  interest  in  his  dinner,  when  I saw  him. 

Insufficient  food  and  unwholesome  living  are  the  main 
causes  of  disease  among  these  small  patients.  So  nourish- 
ment, cleanliness,  and  ventilation  are  the  main  remedies. 
Discharged  patients  are  looked  after,  and  invited  to  come 
and  dine  now  and  then ; so  are  certain  famishing  creatures 
who  were  never  patients.  Both  the  lady  and  the  gentleman 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


331 


are  well  acquainted,  not  only  with  the  histories  of  the 
patients  and  their  families,  but  with  the  characters  and  cir- 
cumstances of  great  numbers  of  their  neighbors : of  these 
they  keep  a register.  It  is  their  common  experience,  that 
people,  sinking  down  by  inches  into  deeper  and  deeper 
poverty,  will  conceal  it,  even  from  them,  if  possible,  unto 
the  very  last  extremity. 

The  nurses  of  this  hospital  are  all  young,  — ranging,  say, 
from  nineteen  to  four  and  twenty.  They  have  even  within 
these  narrow  limits,  what  many  well-endowed  hospitals 
would  not  give  them,  a comfortable  room  of  their  own  in 
which  to  take  their  meals.  It  is  a beautiful  truth,  that 
interest  in  the  children  and  sympathy  with  their  sorrows 
bind  these  young  women  to  their  places  far  more  strongly 
than  any  other  consideration  could.  The  best  skilled  of  the 
nurses  came  originally  from  a kindred  neighborhood,  almost 
as  poor ; and  she  knew  Iioav  much  the  work  was  needed. 
She  is  a fair  dressmaker.  The  hospital  cannot  pay  her  as 
many  pounds  in  the  year  as  there  are  months  in  it ; and  one 
day  the  lady  regarded  it  as  a duty  to  speak  to  her  about  her 
improving  her  prospects  and  following  her  trade.  hlo,’^ 
she  said  : she  could  never  be  so  useful  or  so  happy  elsewhere 
any  more ; she  must  stay  among  the  children.  And  she 
stays.  One  of  the  nurses,  as  I passed  her,  was  washing  a 
baby-boy.  Liking  her  pleasant  face,  I stopped  to  speak  to 
her  charge,  < — a common,  bullet-headed,  frowning  charge 
enough,  laying  hold  of  his  own  nose  with  a slippery  grasp, 
and  staring  very  solemnly  out  of  a blanket.  The  melting  of 
the  pleasant  face  into  delighted  smiles,  as  this  young  gentle- 
man gave  an  unexpected  kick,  and  laughed  at  me,  was  almost 
worth  my  previous  pain. 

An  affecting  play  was  acted  in  Paris  years  ago,  called  The 
Children’s  Doctor.”  As  I parted  from  my  children’s  doctor, 
now  in  question,  I saw  in  his  easy  black  necktie,  in  his  loose 
buttoned  black  frock-coat,  in  his  pensive  face,  in  the  flow  of 
his  dark  hair,  in  his  eyelashes,  in  the  very  turn  of  his 
mustache,  the  exact  realization  of  the  Paris  artist’s  ideal  as  it 
was  presented  on  the  stage.  But  no  romancer  that  I know 
of  has  had  the  boldness  to  prefigure  the  life  and  home  of 


332 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


this  young  husband  and  young  wife  in  the  Children’s  Hos- 
pital in  the  east  of  London. 

I came  away  from  Ratcliff  by  the  Stepney  railway  station 
to  the  terminus  at  Fenchurch  Street.  Any  one  who  will  re- 
verse that  route  may  retrace  my  steps. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


333 


XXXL 

ABOARD  SHIP. 

My  journeys  as  Uncommercial  Traveller  for  the  firm  of 
Human-Interest  Brothers  have  not  slackened  since  I last 
reported  of  them,  but  have  kept  me  continually  on  the  move. 
I remain  in  the  same  idle  employment.  I never  solicit  an 
order,  I never  get  any  commission,  I am  the  rolling  stone  that 
gathers  no  moss,  — unless  any  should  by  chance  be  found 
among  these  samples. 

Some  half  a year  ago,  T found  myself  in  my  idlest,  dreamiest, 
and  least  accountable  condition  altogether,  on  board  ship,  in 
the  harbor  of  the  city  of  Hew  York,  in  the  United  States  of 
America.  Of  all  the  good  ships  afloat,  mine  was  the  good 
steamship  ^^Eussia,’’  Capt.  Cook,  Cunard  Line,  bound  for 
Liverpool.  What  more  could  I wish  for  ? 

I had  nothing  to  wish  for  but  a prosperous  passage.  My 
salad-days,  when  I was  green  of  visage  and  seasick,  being 
gone  with  better  things  (and  no  worse),  no  coming  event  cast 
its  shadow  before. 

I might  but  a few  moments  previously  have  imitated 
Sterne,  and  said,  ^^^And  yet,  methinks,  Eugenius,’  — laying 
my  forefinger  wistfully  on  his  coat-sleeve,  thus,  — ^ and  yet, 
methinks,  Eugenius,  ’tis  but  sorry  work  to  part  with  thee, 
for  what  fresh  fields,  . . . my  dear  Eugenius,  . . . can  be 
fresher  than  thou  art,  and  in  what  pastures  new  shall  I find 
Eliza,  or  call  her,  Eugenius,  if  thou  wilt,  Annie  ? ’ — I say  I 
might  have  done  this ; but  Eugenius  was  gone,  and  I hadn’t 
done  it. 

I was  resting  on  a skylight  on  the  hurricane-deck,  watching 
the  working  of  the  ship  very  slowly  about,  that  she  might 
head  for  England.  It  was  high-noon  on  a most  brilliant  day 
in  April,  and  the  beautiful  bay  was  glorious  and  glowing. 
Eull  manj  a time,  on  shore  there,  had  I seen  the  snow  come 


334 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


down,  down,  down  (itself  like  down),  until  it  lay  deep  in  all 
the  ways  of  men,  and  particularly,  as  it  seemed,  in  my  way, 
for  I had  not  gone  dry-shod  many  hours  for  months.  Within 
two  or  three  days  last  past  had  1 watched  the  feathery  fall 
setting  in  with  the  ardor  of  a new  idea,  instead  of  dragging 
at  the  skirts  of  a worn-out  wdnter,  and  permitting  glimpses  of 
a fresh  young  spring.  But  a bright  sun  and  a clear  sky  had 
melted  the  snow  in  the  great  crucible  of  nature ; and  it  had 
been  poured  out  again  that  morning  over  sea  and  land,  trans- 
formed into  myriads  of  gold  and  silver  sparkles. 

The  ship  was  fragrant  with  flowers.  Something  of  the  old 
Mexican  passion  for  flowers  may  have  gradually  passed  into 
North  America,  where  flowers  are  luxuriously  grown,  and 
tastefully  combined  in  the  richest  profusion ; but,  be  that  as 
it  may,  such  gorgeous  farewells  in  flowers  had  come  on  board, 
that  the  small  officer’s  cabin  on  deck,  which  I tenanted, 
bloomed  over  into  the  adjacent  scuppers,  and  banks  of  other 
flowers  that  it  couldn’t  hold  made  a garden  of  the  unoccupied 
tables  in  the  passengers’  saloon.  These  delicious  scents  of 
the  shore,  mingling  with  the  fresh  airs  of  the  sea,  made  the 
atmosphere  a dreamy,  an  enchanting  one.  And  so,  with  the 
watch  aloft  setting  all  the  sails,  and  with  the  screw  below 
revolving  at  a mighty  rate,  and  occasionally  giving  the  ship 
an  angry  shake  for  resisting,  I fell  into  my  idlest  ways,  and 
lost  myself. 

As,  for  instance,  whether  it  was  I lying  there,  or  some 
other  entity  even  more  mysterious,  was  a matter  I was  far 
too  lazy  to  look  into.  What  did  it  signify  to  me  if  it  were  I ? 
or  to  the  more  mysterious  entity,  if  it  were  he  ? Equally  as 
to  the  remembrances  that  drowsily  floated  by  me,  or  by  him, 
why  ask  when  or  where  the  things  happened  ? Was  it  not 
enough  that  they  befell  at  some  time,  somewhere  ? 

There  was  that  assisting  at  the  church  service  on  board 
another  steamship,  one  Sunday,  in  a stiff  breeze.  Perhaps 
on  the  passage  out.  No  matter.  Pleasant  to  hear  the  ship’s 
bells  go  as  like  church-bells  as  they  could ; pleasant  to  see  the 
watch  off  duty  mustered  and  come  in : best  hats,  best  Guern- 
seys, washed  hands  and  faces,  smoothed  heads.  But  then 
arose  a set  of  circumstances  so  rampantly  comical,  that  no 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLEB. 


335 


check  which  the  gravest  intentions  could  put  upon  them 
would  hold  them  in  hand.  Thus  the  scene.  Some  seventy 
passengers  assembled  at  the  saloon  tables.  Prayer-books  on 
tables.  Ship  rolling  heavily.  Pause.  No  minister.  Pumor 
has  related  that  a modest  young  clergyman  on  board  has 
responded  to  the  captain’s  request  that  he  will  officiate. 
Pause  again,  and  very  heavy  rolling. 

Closed  double  doors  suddenly  burst  open,  and  two  strong 
stewards  skate  in,  supporting  minister  between  them.  General 
appearance  as  of  somebody  picked  up  drunk  and  incapable, 
and  under  conveyance  to  station-house.  Stoppage,  pause,  and 
particularly  heavy  rolling.  Stewards  watch  their  opportunity, 
and  balance  themselves,  but  cannot  balance  minister;  who, 
struggling  with  a drooping  head  and  a backward  tendenc}^ 
seems  determined  to  return  below,  while  they  are  as  deter- 
mined that  he  shall  be  got  to  the  reading-desk  in  mid-saloon. 
Desk  portable,  sliding  away  down  a long  table,  and  aiming 
itself  at  the  breasts  of  various  members  of  the  congregation. 
Here  the  double  doors,  which  have  been  carefully  closed  by 
stewards,  fly  open  again,  and  worldly  passenger  tumbles  in, 
seemingly  with  pale-ale  designs : who,  seeking  friend,  says 
Joe  ! ” Perceiving  incongruity,  says  Hullo  ! Beg  yer  par- 
don ! ” and  tumbles  out  again.  All  this  time  the  congregation 
have  been  breaking  up  into  sects,  — as  the  manner  of  congre- 
gations often  is,  — each  sect  sliding  away  by  itself,  and  all 
pounding  the  weakest  sect  which  slid  first  into  the  corner. 
Utmost  point  of  dissent  soon  attained  in  every  corner,  and 
violent  rolling.  Stewards  at  length  make  a dash;  conduct 
minister  to  the  mast  in  the  centre  of  the  saloon,  which  he 
embraces  with  both  arms ; skate  out ; and  leave  him  in  that 
condition  to  arrange  affairs  with  flock. 

There  was  another  Sunday,  when  an  officer  of  the  ship 
read  the  service.  It  was  quiet  and  impressive,  until  we  fell 
upon  the  dangerous  and  perfectly  unnecessary  experiment  of 
striking  up  a hymn.  After  it  was  given  out,  we  all  rose,  but 
everybody  left  it  to  somebody  else  to  begin.  Silence  resulting, 
the  officer  (no  singer  himself)  rather  reproachfully  gave  us 
the  first  line  again,  upon  which  a rosy  pippin  of  an  old  gentle- 
man, remarkable  throughout  the  passage  for  his  cheerful 


336 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


politeness,  gave  a little  stamp  with  his  boot  (as  if  he  were 
leading  off  a country  dance),  and  blithely  warbled  us  into  a 
show  of  joining.  At  the  end  of  the  first  verse  we  became, 
through  these  tactics,  so  much  refreshed  and  encouraged,  that 
none  of  us,  howsoever  immelodious,  would  submit  to  be  left 
out  of  .the  second  verse ; while  as  to  the  third  we  lifted  up 
our  voices  in  a sacred  howl  that  left  it  doubtful  whether  we  were 
the  more  boastful  of  the  sentiments  we  united  in  professing, 
or  of  professing  them  with  a most  discordant  defiance  of  time 
and  tune. 

Lord  Bless  us  ! thought  I,  when  the  fresh  remembrance 
of  these  things  made  me  laugh  heartily  alone  in  the  dead 
water-gurgling  waste  of  the  night,  what  time  I was  wedged 
into  my  berth  by  a wooden  bar,  or  I must  have  rolled  out  of 
it,  ^^what  errand  was  1 then  upon,  and  to  what  Abyssinian 
point  had  public  events  then  marched  ? No  matter  as  to  me. 
And  as  to  them,  if  the  wonderful  popular  rage  for  a play- 
thing (utterly  confounding  in  its  inscrutable  unreason)  had 
not  then  lighted  on  a poor  young  savage  boy,  and  a poor  old 
screw  of  a horse,  and  hauled  the  first  off  by  the  hair  of  his 
princely  head  to  ^ inspect  ’ British  volunteers,  and  hauled  the 
second  off  by  the  hair  of  his  equine  tail  to  the  Crystal  Palace, 
why  so  much  the  better  for  all  of  us  outside  Bedlam ! ’’ 

So,  sticking  to  the  ship,  I was  at  the  trouble  of  asking 
myself  would  I like  to  show  the  grog  distribution  in  the 
fiddle’’  at  noon  to  the  Grand  United  Amalgamated  Total 
Abstinence  Society  ? Yes,  I think  I should.  I think  it  would 
do  them  good  to  smell  the  rum,  under  the  circumstances. 
Over  the  grog,  mixed  in  a bucket,  presides  the  boatswain’s 
mate,  small  tin  can  in  hand.  Enter  the  crew,  the  guilty  con- 
sumers, the  grown-up  brood  of  Giand  Despair,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  band  of  youthful  angel  Hope.  Some  in  boots 
some  in  leggings,  some  in  tarpaulin  overalls,  some  in  frocks, 
some  in  pea-coats,  a very  few  in  jackets,  most  with  sou’wester 
hats,  all  with  something  rough  and  rugged  round  the  throat  5 
all,  dripping  salt  water  where  they  stand;  all  pelted  by 
weather,  besmeared  with  grease,  and  blackened  by  the  sooty 
rigging. 

Each  man’s  knife  in  its  sheath  in  his  girdle,  loosened  for 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TUAVELLER. 


337 


dinner.  As  the  first  man,  with  a knowingly  kindled  eye, 
watches  the  filling  of  the  poisoned  chalice  (truly  but  a very 
small  tin  mug,  to  be  prosaic),  and  tossing  back  his  head, 
tosses  the  contents  into  himself,  and  passes  the  empty  chalice 
and  passes  on,  so  the  second  man  with  an  anticipatory  wipe 
of  his  mouth  on  sleeve  or  handkerchief,  bides  his  turn,  and 
drinks  and  hands  and  passes  on,  in  w^hom  and  in  each  as  his 
turn  approaches,  beams  a knowingly  kindled  eye,  a brighter 
temper,  and  a suddenly  awakened  tendency  to  be  jocose  with 
some  shipmate.  Nor  do  I even  observe  that  the  man  in 
charge  of  the  ship^s  lamps,  who  in  right  of  his  office  has  a 
double  allowance  of  poisoned  chalices,  seems  thereby  vastly 
degraded,  even  though  he  empties  the  chalices  into  himself, 
one  after  the  other,  much  as  if  he  were  delivering  their  con- 
tents at  some  absorbent  establishment  in  which  he  had  no 
personal  interest.  But  vastly  comforted,  I note  them  all  to 
be,  on  deck  presently,  even  to  the  circulation  of  redder  blood 
in  their  cold  blue  knuckies ; and  when  I look  up  at  them 
lying  out  on  the  yards,  and  holding  on  for  life  among  the 
beating  sails,  I cannot  for  my  life  see  the  justice  of  visiting 
on  them  — or  on  me  — the  drunken  crimes  of  any  number  of 
criminals  arraigned  at  the  heaviest  of  assizes. 

Abetting  myself  in  my  idle  humor,  I closed  my  eyes,  and 
recalled  life  on  board  of  one  of  those  mail-packets,  as  I lay, 
part  of  that  day,  in  the  Bay  of  New  York,  0 ! The  regular 
life  began  — mine  always  did,  for  I never  got  to  sleep  after- 
wards— with  the  rigging  of  the  pump  while  it  was  yet  dark, 
and  w^ashing-down  of  decks.  Any  enormous  giant  at  a pro- 
digious hydropathic  establishment,  conscientiously  undergoing 
the  water-cure  in  all  its  departments,  and  extremely  partic- 
ular about  cleaning  his  teeth,  would  make  those  noises. 
Swash,  splash,  scrub,  rub,  toothbrush,  bubble,  swash,  splash, 
bubble,  toothbrush,  splash,  splash,  bubble,  rub.  Then  the 
day  would  break,  and,  descending  from  my  berth  by  a grace- 
ful ladder  composed  of  half-opened  drawers  beneath  it,  I 
would  reopen  my  outer  dead-light  and  my  inner  sliding 
window  (closed  by  a watchman  during  the  water-cure),  and 
would  look  out  at  the  long-rolling,  lead-colored,  white-topped 
waves  over  which  the  dawn,  on  a cold  winter  morning  cast  a 


338 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


level,  lonely  glance,  and  throiigli  which  the  ship  fought  her 
melancholy  way  at  a terrific  rate.  And  now,  lying  down 
again,  awaiting  the  season  for  broiled  ham  and  tea,  I would 
be  compelled  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  conscience,  — the  screw. 

It  might  be,  in  some  cases,  no  more  than  the  voice  of 
stomach ; but  I called  it  in  my  fancy  by  the  higher  name. 
Because  it  seemed  to  me  that  we  were  all  of  us,  all  day  long, 
endeavoring  to  stifle  the  voice.  Because  it  was  under  every- 
body’s pillow,  everybody’s  plate,  everybody’s  camp-stool,  every- 
body’s book,  everybody’s  occupation.  Because  we  pretended 
not  to  hear  it,  especially  at  meal-times,  evening  whist,  and 
morning  conversation  on  deck ; but  it  was  always  among  us 
in  an  under  monotone,  not  to  be  drowned  in  pea-soup,  not  to 
be  shuffled  with  cards,  not  to  be  diverted  by  books,  not  to  be 
knitted  into  any  pattern,  not  to  be  walked  away  from.  It 
was  smoked  in  the  weediest  cigar,  and  drunk  in  the  strongest 
cocktail : it  was  conveyed  on  deck  at  noon  with  limp  ladies, 
who  lay  there  in  their  wrappers  until  the  stars  shone ; it 
waited  at  table  with  the  stewards ; nobody  could  put  it  out 
with  the  lights.  It  was  considered  (as  on  shore)  ill-bred  to 
acknowledge  the  voice  of  conscience.  It  was  not  polite  to 
mention  it.  One  squally  day  an  amiable  gentleman  in  love 
gave  much  offence  to  a surrounding  circle,  including  the 
object  of  his  attachment,  by  saying  of  it,  after  it  had  goaded 
him  over  two  easy-chairs  and  a skylight,  Screw  ! ” 

Sometimes  it  would  appear  subdued.  In  fleeting  moments, 
when  bubbles  of  champagne  pervaded  the  nose,  or  when  there 
was  hot  pot  ” in  the  bill  of  fare,  or  when  an  old  dish  we  had 
had  regularly  every  day  was  described  in  that  ofiflcial  docu- 
ment by  a new  name,  — under  such  excitements,  one  would 
almost  believe  it  hushed.  The  ceremony  of  washing  plates 
on  deck,  performed  after  every  meal  by  a circle  as  of  ringers 
of  crockery  triple-bob  majors  for  a prize,  would  keep  it  down. 
Hauling  the  reel,  taking  the  sun  at  noon,  posting  the  twenty- 
four  hours’  run,  altering  the  ship’s  time  by  the  meridian, 
casting  the  waste  food  overboard,  and  attracting  the  eager 
gulls  that  followed  in  our  wake,  — these  events  would  sup- 
press it  for  awhile.  But  the  instant  any  break  or  pause  took 
place  in  any  such  diversion,  the  voice  would  be  at  it  again. 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  travelleb. 


339 


importuning  us  to  the  last  extent.  A newly  married  young 
pair,  who  walked  the  deck  affectionately  some  twenty  miles 
per  day,  would,  in  the  full  flush  of  their  exercise,  suddenly 
become  stricken  by  it,  and  stand  trembling,  but  otherwise 
immovable,  under  its  reproaches. 

AVhen  this  terrible  monitor  was  most  severe  with  us  was 
when  the  time  approached  for  our  retiring  to  our  dens  for 
the  night ; when  the  lighted  candles  in  the  saloon  grew  fewer 
and  fewer ; when  the  deserted  glasses  with  spoons  in  them 
grew  more  and  more  numerous ; when  waifs  of  toasted  cheese 
and  strays  of  sardines  fried  in  batter  slid  languidly  to  and  fro 
in  the  table-racks ; when  the  man  who  always  read  had  shut 
up  his  book,  and  blown  out  his  candle ; when  the  man  who 
always  talked  had  ceased  from  troubling ; when  the  man  who 
was  always  medically  reported  as  going  to  have  delirium 
tremens  had  put  it  off  till  to-morrow ; when  the  man  who 
every  night  devoted  himself  to  a midnight  smoke  on  deck  two 
hours  in  length,  and  who  every  night  was  in  bed  within  ten 
minutes  afterwards,  was  buttoning  himself  up  in  his  third 
coat  for  his  hardy  vigil : for  then,  as  we  fell  off  one  by  one, 
and,  entering  our  several  hutches,  came  into  a peculiar  atmos- 
phere of  bilge-water  and  Windsor  soap,  the  voice  would  shake 
us  to  the  centre.  Woe  to  us  when  we  sat  down  on  our  sofa, 
watching  the  swinging  candle  forever  trying  and  retrying  to 
stand  upon  his  head!  or  our  coat  upon  its  peg,  imitating  us 
as  we  appeared  in  our  gymnastic  days  by  sustaining  itself 
horizontally  from  the  wall,  in  emulation  of  the  lighter  and 
more  facile  towels ! Then  would  the  voice  especially  claim 
us  for  its  prey,  and  rend  us  all  to  pieces. 

Lights  out,  we  in  our  births,  and  the  wind  rising,  the  voice 
grows  angrier  and  deeper.  Under  the  mattress  and  under  the 
pillow,  under  the  sofa  and  under  the  washing-stand,  under 
the  ship  and  under  the  sea,  seeming  to  rise  from  the  founda- 
tions under  the  earth  with  every  scoop  of  the  great  Atlantic 
(and  oh ! why  scoop  so  ?),  always  the  voice.  Vain  to  deny 
its  existence  in  the  night  season ; impossible  to  be  hard  of 
hearing ; screw,  screw,  screw ! Sometimes  it  lifts  out  of  the 
water,  and  revolves  with  a whir,  like  a ferocious  firework,  — 
except  that  it  never  expends  itself,  but  is  always  ready  to  go 


340 


THE  unCOUMEnClAL  TUAVELLEn, 


off  again ; sometimes  it  seems  to  be  in  anguish,  and  shivers ; 
sometimes  it  seems  to  be  terrified  by  its  last  plunge,  and  has 
a fit  which  causes  it  to  struggle,  quiver,  and  for  an  instant 
stop.  And  now  the  ship  sets  in  rolling,  as  only  ships  so 
fiercely  screwed  through  time  and  space,  day  and  night,  fair 
weather  and  foul,  can  roll. 

Did  she  ever  take  a roll  before  like  that  last  ? Did  she 
ever  take  a roll  before  like  this  worse  one  that  is  coming  now  ? 
Here  is  the  partition  at  my  ear  down  in  the  deep  on  the  lee 
side.  Are  we  ever  coming  up  again  together  ? I think  not ; 
the  partition  and  I are  so  long  about  it  that  I really  do  be- 
lieve we  have  overdone  it  this  time.  Heavens,  what  a scoop  ! 
What  a deep  scoop,  what  a hollow  scoop,  what  a long  scoop ! 
Will  it  ever  end,  and  can  we  bear  the  heavy  mass  of  water 
we  have  taken  on  board,  and  which  has  let  loose  all  the  table 
furniture  in  the  officers’  mess,  and  has  beaten  open  the  door 
of  the  little  passage  between  the  purser  and  me,  and  is  swash- 
ing about,  even  there  and  even  here  ? The  purser  snores 
reassuringly,  and  the  ship’s  bells  striking,  I hear  the  cheerful 
All’s  well ! ” of  the  watch,  musically  given  back  the  length 
of  the  deck,  as  the  lately  diving  partition,  now  high  in  air, 
tries  (unsoftened  by  what  we  have  gone  through  together)  to 
force  me  out  of  bed  and  berth. 

All’s  well ! ” Comforting  to  know,  though  surely  all 
might  be  better.  Put  aside  the  rolling  and  the  rush  of  water, 
and  think  of  darting  through  such  darkness  with  such  velo- 
city. Think  of  any  other  similar  object  coming  in  the  oppo- 
site direction ! 

Whether  there  may  be  an  attraction  in  two  such  moving 
bodies  out  at  sea,  which  may  help  accident  to  bring  them 
into  collision  ? Thoughts,  too,  arise  (the  voice  never  silent 
all  the  while,  but  marvellously  suggestive)  of  the  gulf  below ; 
of  the  strange  unfruitful  mountain  ranges  and  deep  valleys 
over  which  we  are  passing ; of  monstrous  fish  midway ; of  the 
ship’s  suddenly  altering  her  course  on  her  own  account,  and 
with  a wild  plunge  settling  down,  and  making  that  voyage 
with  a crew  of  dead  discoverers.  How,  too,  one  recalls  an 
almost  universal  tendency  on  the  part  of  passengers  to 
stumble,  at  some  time  or  other  in  the  day,  on  the  topic  of  a 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


341 


certain  large  steamer  making  this  same  run,  which  was  lost 
at  sea,  and  never  heard  of  more.  Everybody  has  seemed 
under  a spell,  compelling  approach  to  the  threshold  of  the 
grim  subject,  stoppage,  discomfiture,  and  pretence  of  never 
having  been  near  it.  The  boatswain’s  whistle  sounds  ! A 
change  in  the  wind,  hoarse  orders  issuing,  and  the  watch  very 
busy.  Sails  come  crashing  home  overhead,  ropes  (that  seem 
all  knot)  ditto ; every  man  engaged  appears  to  have  twenty 
feet,  with  twenty  times  the  average  amount  of  stamping 
power  in  each.  Gradually  the  noise  slackens,  the  hoarse 
cries  die  away,  the  boatswain’s  whistle  softens  into  the  sooth- 
ing and  contented  notes,  which  rather  reluctantly  admit  that 
the  job  is  done  for  the  time,  and  the  voice  sets  in  again. 

Thus  come  unintelligible  dreams  of  up  hill  and  down,  and 
swinging  and  swaying,  until  consciousness  revives  of  atmos- 
pherical Windsor  soap  and  bilge-water,  and  the  voice  announces 
that  the  giant  has  come  for  the  water-cure  again. 

Such  were  my  fanciful  reminiscences  as  I lay,  part  of  that 
day,  in  the  Bay  of  New  York,  0 ! Also  as  we  passed  clear 
of  the  Narrows,  and  got  out  to  sea;  also  in  many  an  idle 
hour  at  sea  in  sunny  weather ! At  length  the  observations 
and  computations  showed  that  we  should  make  the  coast  of 
Ireland  to-night.  So  I stood  watch  on  deck  all  night  to-night, 
to  see  how  we  made  the  coast  of  Ireland. 

Very  dark,  and  the  sea  most  brilliantly  phosphorescent. 
Great  way  on  the  ship,  and  double  lookout  kept.  Vigilant 
captain  on  the  bridge,  vigilant  first  officer  looking  over  the 
port  side,  vigilant  second  officer  standing  by  the  quarter- 
master at  the  compass,  vigilant  third  officer  posted  at  the 
stern  rail  with  a lantern.  No  passengers  on  the  quiet  decks, 
but  expectation  everywhere  nevertheless.  The  two  men  at 
the  wheel  very  steady,  very  serious,  and  very  prompt  to 
answer  orders.  An  order  issued  sharply  now  and  then,  and 
echoed  back ; otherwise  the  night  drags  slowly,  silently,  and 
with  no  change. 

All  of  a sudden,  at  the  blank  hour  of  two  in  the  morning, 
a vague  movement  of  relief  from  a long  strain  expresses 
itself  in  all  hands ; the  third  officer’s  lantern  twinkles,  and 
he  fires  a rocket,  and  another  rocket.  A sullen  solitary  light 


342  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

is  pointed  out  to  me  in  the  black  sky  yonder.  .A  change  is 
expected  in  the  light,  but  none  takes  place.  “ Give  them 
two  more  rockets,  Mr.  Vigilant.’’  Two  more,  and  a blue- 
light  burnt.  All  eyes  watch  the  light  again.  At  last  a little 
toy  sky-rocket  is  flashed  up  from  it ; and,  even  as  that  small 
streak  in  the  darkness  dies  away,  we  are  telegraphed  to 
Queenstown,  Liverpool,  and  London,  and  back  again  under 
the  ocean  to  America. 

Then  up  come  the  half-dozen  passengers  who  are  going 
ashore  at  Queenstown,  and  up  comes  the  mail-agent  in  charge 
of  the  bags,  and  up  come  the  men  who  are  to  carry  the  bags 
into  the  mail-tender  that  will  come  off  for  them  out  of  the 
harbor.  Lamps  and  lanterns  gleam  here  and  there  about  the 
decks,  and  impeding  bulks  are  knocked  away  with  handspikes ; 
and  the  port-side  bulwark,  barren  but  a moment  ago,  bursts 
into  a crop  of  heads  of  seamen,  stewards,  and  engineers. 

The  light  begins  to  be  gained  upon,  begins  to  be  alongside, 
begins  to  be  left  astern.  More  rockets,  and,  between  us  and 
the  land,  steams  beautifully  the  Inman  steamship  City  of 
Paris,  for  New  York,  outward  bound.  We  observe  with  com- 
placency that  the  wind  is  dead  against  her  (it  being  with  us), 
and  that  she  rolls  and  pitches.  (The  sickest  passenger  on 
board  is  the  most  delighted  by  this  circumstance.)  Time 
rushes  by  as  we  rush  on ; and  now  we  see  the  light  in  Queens- 
town Harbor,  and  now  the  lights  of  the  mail-tender  coming 
out  to  us.  What  vagaries  the  mail-tender  performs  on  the 
way,  in  every  point  of  the  compass,  especially  in  those  where 
she  has  no  business,  and  why  she  performs  them.  Heaven 
only  knows ! At  length  she  is  seen  plunging  within  a cable’s 
length  of  our  port  broadside,  and  is  being  roared  at  through 
our  speaking-trumpets  to  do  this  thing,  and  not  to  do  that, 
and  to  stand  by  the  other,  as  if  she  were  a very-  demented 
tender  indeed.  Then,  we  slackening  amidst  a deafening  rpar 
of  steam,  this  much-abused  tender  is  made  fast  to  us  by 
hawsers,  and  the  men  in  readiness  carry  the  bags  aboard,  and 
return  for  more,  bending  under  their  burdens,  and  looking 
just  like  the  pasteboard  figures  of  the  miller  and  his  men  in 
the  theatre  of  our  boyhood,  and  comporting  themselves 
almost  as  unsteadily.  All  the  while  the  unfortunate  tender 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


343 


plunges  high  and  low,  and  is  roared  at.  Then  the  Queens- 
town passengers  are  put  on  board  of  her,  with  infinite  plun- 
ging and  roaring,  and  the  tender  gets  heaved  up  on  the  sea  to 
that  surprising  extent  that  she  looks  within  an  ace  of  washing 
aboard  of  us,  high  and  dry.  Eoared  at  with  contumely  to 
the  last,  this  wretched  tender  is  at  length  let  go,  with  a final 
plunge  of  great  ignominy,  and  falls  spinning  into  our  wake. 

The  voice  of  conscience  resumed  its  dominion  as  the  day 
climbed  up  the  sky,  and  kept  by  all  of  us  passengers  into 
port ; kept  by  us  as  we  passed  other  lighthouses,  and  danger- 
ous islands  off  the  coast,  where  some  of  the  officers,  with 
whom  I stood  my  watch,  had  gone  ashore  in  sailing-ships  in 
fogs  (and  of  which  by  that  token  they  seemed  to  have  quite 
an  affectionate  remembrance),  and  past  the  Welsh  coast,  and 
past  the  Cheshire  coast,  and  past  everything  and  everywhere 
lying  between  our  ship  and  her  own  special  dock  in  the 
Mersey.  Off  which,  at  last,  at  nine  of  the  clock,  on  a fair 
evening  early  in  May,  we  stopped,  and  the  voice  ceased.  A 
very  curious  sensation,  not  unlike  having  my  own  ears 
stopped,  ensued  upon  that  silence ; and  it  was  with  a no  less 
curious  sensation  that  I went  over  the  side  of  the  good  Cunard 
ship  Russia  (whom  prosperity  attend  through  all  her  voy- 
ages ! ) and  surveyed  the  outer  hull  of  the  gracious  monster 
that  the  voice  had  inhabited.  So,  perhaps,  shall  we  all,  in 
the  spirit,  one  day  survey  the  frame  that  held  the  busier 
voice  from  which  my  vagrant  fancy  derived  this  similitude. 


344 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


XXXII. 

A LITTLE  DINNER  IN  AN  HOUR. 

It  fell  out  on  a day  in  this  last  autumn^  that  I had  to  go 
down  from  London  to  a place  of  seaside  resort,  on  an  hour’s 
business,  accompanied  by  my  esteemed  friend  Bullfinch.  Let 
the  place  of  seaside  resort  be,  for  the  nonce,  called  Name- 
lesston. 

I had  been  loitering  about  Paris  in  very  hot  weather, 
pleasantly  breakfasting  in  the  open  air  in  the  garden  of  the 
Palais  Eoyal  or  the  Tuileries,  pleasantly  dining  in  the  open 
air  in  the  Elysian  Pields,  pleasantly  taking  my  cigar  and 
lemonade  in  the  open  air  on  the  Italian  Boulevard  towards 
the  small  hours  after  midnight.  Bullfinch  — an  excellent 
man  of  business  — had  summoned  me  back  across  the  Chan- 
nel, to  transact  this  said  hour’s  business  at  Xamelesston ; 
and  thus  it  fell  out  that  Bullfinch  and  I were  in  a railway 
carriage  together  on  our  way  to  Xamelesston,  each  with  his 
return  ticket  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

Says  Bullfinch,  I have  a proposal  to  make.  Let  us  dine 
at  the  Temeraire.” 

I asked  Bullfinch,  did  he  recommend  the  Temeraire  ? inas- 
much as  I had  not  been  rated  on  the  books  of  the  Temeraire 
for  many  years. 

Bullfinch  declined  to  accept  the  responsibility  of  recom- 
mending the  Temeraire,  but  on  the  whole  was  rather  sanguine 
about  it.  He  seemed  to  remember,”  Bullfinch  said,  that 
he  had  dined  well  there.  A plain  dinner,  but  good.  Cer- 
tainly not  like  a Parisian  dinner  (here  Bullfinch  obviously 
became  the  prey  of  want  of  confidence),  but  of  its  kind  very 
fair. 

I appeal  to  Bullfinch’s  intimate  knowledge  of  my  wants 
and  ways  to  decide  whether  I was  usually  ready  to  be  pleased 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


345 


with  any  dinner,  or  — for  the  matter  of  that  — with  anything 
that  was  fair  of  its  kind  and  really  what  it  claimed  to  be. 
Bullfinch  doing  me  the  honor  to  respond  in  the  affirmative,  I 
agreed  to  ship  myself  as  an  able  trencherman  on  board  the 
Temeraire. 

^^Now,  our  plan  shall  be  this,’’  says  Bullfinch,  with  his 
forefinger  at  his  nose.  As  soon  as  we  get  to  Namelesston, 
we’ll  drive  straight  to  the  Temeraire,  and  order  a little  dinner 
ill  an  hour.  And  as  we  shall  not  have  more  than  enough 
time  in  which  to  dispose  of  it  comfortably,  what  do  you  say 
to  giving  the  house  the  best  opportunities  of  serving  it  hot 
and  quickly  by  dining  in  the  coffee-room  ? ” 

What  I had  to  say  was,  Certainly.  Bullfinch  (who  is  by 
nature  of  an  hopeful  constitution)  then  began  to  babble  of 
green  geese.  But  I checked  him  in  that  Falstaffian  vein,  ur- 
ging considerations  of  time  and  cookery. 

In  due  sequence  of  events  we  drove  up  to  the  Temeraire, 
and  alighted.  A youth  in  livery  received  us  on  the  doorstep. 
Looks  well,”  said  Bullfinch  confidentially.  And  tlien  aloud. 
Coffee-room  ! 

The  youth  in  livery  (now  perceived  to  be  mouldy)  conducted 
us  to  the  desired  haven,  and  was  enjoined  by  Bullfinch  to  send 
the  waiter  at  once,  as  we  wished  to  order  a little  dinner  in  an 
hour.  Then  Bullfinch  and  I waited  for  the  waiter,  until,  the 
waiter  continuing  to  wait  in  some  unknown  and  invisible 
sphere  of  action,  we  rang  for  the  waiter ; which  ring  pro- 
duced the  waiter,  who  announced  himself  as  not  the  waiter 
who  ought  to  wait  upon  us,  and  who  didn’t  wait  a moment 
longer. 

So  Bullfinch  approached  the  coffee-room  door,  and  melodi- 
ously pitching  his  voice  into  a bar  where  two  young  ladies 
were  keeping  the  books  of  the  Temeraire,  apologetically 
explained  that  we  wished  to  order  a little  dinner  in  an  hour, 
and  that  we  were  debarred  from  the  execution  of  our  inoffen- 
sive purpose  by  consignment  to  solitude. 

Hereupon  one  of  the  young  ladies  rang  a bell,  which  re- 
produced— at  the  bar  this  time  — the  waiter  who  was  not 
the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us ; that  extraordinary 
man,  whose  life  seemed  consumed  in  waiting  upon  people  to 


346  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 

say  that  he  wouldn’t  wait  upon  them,  repeated  his  former 
protest  with  great  indignation,  and  retired. 

Bullfinch,  with  a fallen  countenance,  was  about  to  say  to 
me,  ^^This  won’t  do,”  when  the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait 
upon  us  left  off  keeping  us  waiting  at  last.  Waiter,”  said 
Bullfinch  piteously,  ^^we  have  been  a long  time  waiting.” 
The  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us  laid  the  blame  upon 
the  waiter  who  ought  not  to  wait  upon  us,  and  said  it  was  all 
that  waiter’s  fault. 

^^We  wish,”  said  Bullfinch,  much  depressed,  ^^to  order  a 
little  dinner  in  an  hour.  What  can  we  have  ? ” 

What  would  you  like  to  have,  gentlemen  ? ” 

Bullfinch,  with  extreme  mournfulness  of  speech  and  action, 
and  with  a forlorn  old  fly-blown  bill  of  fare  in  his  hand  which 
the  waiter  had  given  him,  and  which  was  a sort  of  general 
manuscript  index  to  any  cookery-book  you  please,  moved  the 
previous  question. 

We  could  have  mock-turtle  soup,  a sole,  curry,  and  roast 
duck.  Agreed.  At  this  table  by  this  window.  Punctually 
in  an  hour. 

I had  been  feigning  to  look  out  of  this  window ; but  I had 
been  taking  note  of  the  crumbs  on  all  the  tables,  the  dirty 
table-cloths,  the  stuffy,  soupy,  airless  atmosphere,  the  stale 
leavings  everywhere  about,  the  deep  gloom  of  the  waiter  who 
ought  to  wait  upon  us,  and  the  stomach-ache  with  which  a 
lonely  traveller  at  a distant  table  in  a corner  was  too  evidently 
afflicted.  I now  pointed  out  to  Bullfinch  the  alarming  circum- 
stance that  this  traveller  had  dined.  We  hurriedly  debated 
whether,  without  infringement  of  good  breeding,  we  could  ask 
him  to  disclose  if  he  had  partaken  of  mock-turtle,  sole,  curry, 
or  roast  duck  ? We  decided  that  the  thing  could  not  be 
politely  done,  and  we  had  set  our  own  stomachs  on  a cast, 
and  they  must  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die. 

I hold  phrenology,  within  certain  limits,  to  be  true ; I am 
much  of  the  same  mind  as  to  the  subtler  expressions  of  the 
hand;  I hold  physiognomy  to  be  infallible;  though  all  these 
sciences  demand  rare  qualities  in  the  student.  But  I also  hold 
that  there  is  no  more  certain  index  to  personal  character  than 
the  condition  of  a set  of  casters  is  to  the  character  of  any 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


347 


hotel.  Knowing,  and  having  often  tested  this  theory  of  mine, 
Bullfinch  resigned  himself  to  the  worst,  when,  laying  aside 
any  remaining  veil  of  disguise,  I held  up  before  him  in  suc- 
cession the  cloudy  oil  and  furry  vinegar,  the  clogged  cayenne, 
the  dirty  salt,  the  obscene  dregs  of  soy,  and  the  anchovy  sauce 
in  a flannel  waistcoat  of  decomposition. 

We  went  out  to  transact  our  business.  So  inspiriting  was 
the  relief  of  passing  into  the  clean  and  windy  streets  of  Kame- 
lesston  from  the  heavy  and  vapid  closeness  of  the  coffee-room 
of  the  Temeraire,  that  hope  began  to  revive  within  us.  We 
began  to  consider  that  perhaps  the  lonely  traveller  had  taken 
physic,  or  done  something  injudicious  to  bring  his  complaint 
on.  Bullfinch  remarked  that  he  thought  the  waiter  who  ought 
to  wait  upon  us  had  brightened  a little  when  suggesting 
curry  ; and  although  I knew  him  to  have  been  at  that 
moment  the  express  image  of  despair,  I allowed  myself  to 
become  elevated  in  spirits.  As  we  walked  by  the  softly 
lapping  sea,  all  the  notabilities  of  Kamelesston  who  are  for- 
ever going  up  and  down  with  the  changelessness  of  the  tides, 
passed  to  and  fro  in  procession.  Pretty  girls  on  horseback, 
and  with  detested  riding-masters  ; pretty  girls  on  foot ; mature 
ladies  in  hats,  — spectacled,  strong-minded,  and  glaring  at  the 
opposite  or  weaker  sex.  The  Stock  Exchange  was  strongly 
represented,  Jerusalem  was  strongly  represented,  the  bores 
of  the  prosier  London  clubs  were  strongly  represented. 
Fortune-hunters  of  all  denominations  were  there,  from  hir- 
sute insolvency,  in  a curricle,  to  closely  buttoned  swindlery 
in  doubtful  boots,  on  the  sharp  lookout  for  any  likely  young 
gentleman  disposed  to  play  a game  at  billiards  round  the 
corner.  Masters  of  languages,  their  lessons  finished  for  the 
day,  were  going  to  their  homes  out  of  sight  of  the  sea ; mis- 
tresses of  accomplishments,  carrying  small  portfolios,  likewise 
tripped  homeward;  pairs  of  scholastic  pupils,  two  and  two, 
went  languidly  along  the  beach,  surveying  the  face  of  the 
waters  as  if  waiting  for  some  Ark  to  come  and  take  them  off. 
Spectres  of  the  George  the  Fourth  days  flitted  unsteadily 
among  the  crowd,  bearing  the  outward  semblance  of  ancient 
dandies,  of  every  one  of  whom  it  might  be  said,  not  that  he  had 
one  leg  in  the  grave,  or  both  legs,  but  that  he  was  steeped  in 


348 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


grave  to  the  summit  of  his  high  shirt-collar,  and  had  nothing 
real  about  him  but  his  bones.  Alone  stationary  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  movements,  the  ISTamelesston  boatmen  leaned  against 
the  railings  and  yawned,  and  looked  out  to  sea,  or  looked  at 
the  moored  fishing-boats  and  at  nothing.  Such  is  the  unchan- 
ging manner  of  life  with  this  nursery  of  our  hardy  seamen ; 
and  very  dry  nurses  they  are,  and  always  wanting  something 
to  drink.  The  only  two  nautical  personages  detached  from 
the  railing  were  the  two  fortunate  possessors  of  the  celebrated 
monstrous  unknown  barking-fish,  just  caught  (frequently  just 
caught  off  Kamelesston),  who  carried  him  about  in  a hamper, 
and  pressed  the  scientific  to  look  in  at  the  lid. 

The  sands  of  the  hour  had  all  run  out  when  we  got  back  to 
the  Temeraire.  Says  Bullfinch,  then,  to  the  youth  in  livery, 
with  boldness,  Lavatory  ! 

When  we  arrived  at  the  family  vault  with  a skylight,  which 
the  youth  in  livery  presented  as  the  institution  sought,  we 
had  already  whisked  off  our  cravats  and  coats;  but  finding 
ourselves  in  the  presence  of  an  evil  smell,  and  no  linen  but 
two  crumpled  towels  newly  damp  from  the  countenances  of 
two  somebody  elses,  we  put  on  our  cravats  and  coats  again,  and 
fled  unwashed  to  the  coffee-room. 

There  the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us  had  set  forth 
our  knives  and  forks  and  glasses,  on  the  cloth  whose  dirty 
acquaintance  we  had  already  had  the  pleasure  of  making,  and 
which  we  were  pleased  to  recognize  by  the  familiar  expression 
of  its  stains.  And  now  there  occurred  the  truly  surprising 
phenomenon,  that  the  waiter  who  ought  not  to  wait  upon  us 
swooped  down  upon  us,  clutched  our  loaf  of  bread,  and  vanished 
with  the  same. 

Bullfinch,  with  distracted  eyes,  was  following  this  unaccount- 
able figure  out  at  the  portal,^’  like  the  ghost  in  Hamlet,  when 
the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us  jostled  against  it,  carry- 
ing a tureen. 

Waiter!’’  said  a severe  diner,  lately  finished,  perusing  his 
bill  fiercely  through  his  eye-glass. 

The  waiter  put  down  our  tureen  on  a remote  side-table,  and 
went  to  see  what  was  amiss  in  this  new  direction. 

‘‘  This  is  not  right,  you  know,  waiter.  Look  here ! here’s 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


349 


yesterday’s  sherry,  one  and  eightpence,  and  here  we  are  again, 
two  shillings.  And  what  does  sixpence  mean  ? ” 

So  far  from  knowing  what  sixpence  meant,  the  waiter  pro- 
tested that  he  didn’t  know  what  anything  meant.  He  wiped 
the  perspiration  from  his  clammy  brow,  and  said  it  was  impos- 
sible to  do  it,  — not  particularizing  what,  — and  the  kitchen 
was  so  far  off. 

^^Take  the  bill  to  the  bar,  and  get  it  altered,”  said  Mr. 
Indignation  Cocker,  so  to  call  him. 

The  waiter  took  it,  looked  intensely  at  it,  didn’t  seem  to 
like  the  idea  of  taking  it  to  the  bar,  and  submitted,  as  a new 
light  upon  the  case,  that  perhaps  sixpence  meant  sixpence. 

tell  you  again,”  said  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker,  here’s 
yesterday’s  sherry  — can’t  you  see  it?  — one  and  eightpence, 
and  here  we  are  again,  two  shillings.  What  do  you  make  of 
one  and  eightpence  and  two  shillings  ? ” 

Totally  unable  to  make  anything  of  one  and  eightpence  and 
two  shillings,  the  waiter  went  out  to  try  if  anybody  else  could; 
merely  casting  a helpless  backward  glance  at  Bullfinch,  in 
acknowledgment  of  his  pathetic  entreaties  for  our  soup-tureen. 
After  a pause,  during  which  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker  read  a 
newspaper  and  coughed  defiant  coughs.  Bullfinch  arose  to  get 
the  tureen,  when  the  waiter  reappeared  and  brought  it,  — 
dropping  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker’s  altered  bill  on  Mr.  Indig- 
nation Cocker’s  table  as  he  came  along. 

It’s  quite  impossible  to  do  it,  gentlemen,”  murmured  the 
waiter;  ‘^and  the  kitchen  is  so  far  off.” 

‘AVell,  you  don’t  keep  the  house;  it’s  not  your  fault,  we 
suppose.  Bring  some  sherry.” 

‘AVaiter!”  from  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker,  with  a new  and 
burning  sense  of  injury  upon  him. 

The  waiter,  arrested  on  his  way  to  our  sherry,  stopped  short, 
and  came  back  to  see  what  was  wrong  now. 

Will  you  look  here  ? This  is  worse  than  before.  Do  you 
understand  ? Here’s  yesterday’s  sherry,  one  and  eightpence, 
and  here  we  are  again  two  shillings.  And  what  the  devil  does 
ninepence  mean  ? ” 

This  new  portent  utterly  confounded  the  waiter.  He  wrung 
bis  napkin,  and  mutely  appealed  to  the  ceiling. 


350 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


Waiter,  fetch  that  sherry,’’  says  Bullfinch,  in  open  wrath 
and  revolt. 

I want  to  know,”  persisted  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker,  the 
meaning  of  ninepence.  I want  to  know  the  meaning  of  sherry 
one  and  eightpence  yesterday,  and  of  here  we  are  again  two 
shillings.  Send  somebody.” 

The  distracted  waiter  got  out  of  the  room  on  pretext  of 
sending  somebody,  and  by  that  means  got  our  wine.  But 
the  instant  he  appeared  with  our  decanter,  Mr.  Indignation 
Cocker  descended  on  him  again. 

Waiter ! ” 

You  will  now  have  the  goodness  to  attend  to  our  dinner, 
waiter,”  said  Bullfinch,  sternly. 

I am  very  sorry,  but  it’s  quite  impossible  to  do  it,  gentle- 
men,” pleaded  the  waiter;  ‘^and  the  kitchen”  — 

^•Waiter!”  said  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker. 

— Is,”  resumed  the  waiter,  so  far  off,  that  ” — 

Waiter!”  persisted  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker,  send  some- 
body.” 

We  were  not  without  our  fears  that  the  waiter  rushed  out 
to  hang  himself ; and  we  were  much  relieved  by  his  fetching 
somebody,  — in  graceful,  flowing  skirts  and  with  a waist, — 
who  very  soon  settled  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker’s  business. 

Oh ! ” said  Mr.  Cocker,  with  his  fire  surprisingly  quenched 
by  this  apparition;  ‘^1  wished  to  ask  about  this  bill  of  mine, 
because  it  appears  to  me  that  there’s  a little  mistake  here. 
Let  me  show  you.  Here’s  yesterday’s  sherry  one  and  eight- 
pence,  and  here  we  are  again  two  shillings.  And  how  do  you 
explain  ninepence  ? ” 

However  it  was  explained,  in  tones  too  soft  to  be  overheard. 
Mr.  Cocker  was  heard  to  say  nothing  more  than  ^^Ah-h-h-l 
Indeed;  thank  you!  Yes,”  and  shortly  afterwards  went  out, 
a milder  man. 

The  lonely  traveller  with  the  stomach-ache  had  all  this  time 
suffered  severely,  drawing  up  a leg  now  and  then,  and  sipping 
hot  brandy  and  water  with  grated  ginger  in  it.  When  we  tasted 
our  (very)  mock-turtle  soup,  and  were  instantly  seized  with 
symptoms  of  some  disorder  simulating  apoplexy,  and  occa- 
sioned by  the  surcharge  of  nose  and  brain  with  lukewarm 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


351 


dish-water  holding  in  solution  sour  flour,  poisonous  condiments, 
and  (say)  seventy-five  per  cent  of  miscellaneous  kitchen  stuff 
rolled  into  balls,  we  were  inclined  to  trace  his  disorder  to  that 
source.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  a silent  anguish  upon 
him  too  strongly  resembling  the  results  established  within  our- 
selves by  the  sherry,  to  be  discarded  from  alarmed  considera- 
tion. Again,  we  observed  him,  with  terror,  to  be  much  overcome 
by  our  sole’s  being  aired  in  a temporary  retreat  close  to  him, 
while  the  waiter  went  out  (as  we  conceived)  to  see  his  friends. 
And  when  the  curry  made  its  appearance  he  suddenly  retired 
in  great  disorder. 

In  fine,  for  the  uneatable  part  of  this  little  dinner  (as  con- 
tradistinguished from  the  undrinkable)  we  paid  only  seven 
shillings  and  sixpence  each.  And  Bullfinch  and  I agreed  unan- 
imously, that  no  such  ill-served,  ill-appointed,  ill-cooked,  nasty 
little  dinner  could  be  got  for  the  money  anywhere  else  under 
the  sun.  With  that  comfort  to  our  backs,  we  turned  them  on 
the  dear  old  Temeraire,  the  charging  Temeraire,  and  resolved 
(in  the  Scotch  dialect)  to  gang  nae  mair  to  the  flabby  Temeraire. 


352 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XXXIII. 

MR.  BARLOW. 

A GREAT  reader  of  good  fiction  at  an  unusually  early  age, 
it  seems  to  me  as  though  I had  been  born  under  the  super- 
intendence of  the  estimable  but  terrific  gentleman  whose 
name  stands  at  the  head  of  my  present  reflections.  The 
instructive  monomaniac,  Mr.  Barlow,  will  be  remembered 
as  the  tutor  of  Master  Harry  Sandford  and  Master  Tommy 
Merton.  He  knew  everything,  and  didactically  improved 
all  sorts  of  occasions,  from  the  consumption  of  a plate  of 
cherries  to  the  contemplation  of  a starlight  night.  What 
youth  came  to  without  Mr.  Barlow  was  displayed  in  the 
history  of  Sandford  and  Merton,  by  the  example  of  a certain 
awful  Master  Mash.  This  young  wretch  wore  buckles  and 
powder,  conducted  himself  with  insupportable  levity  at  the 
theatre,  had  no  idea  of  facing  a mad  bull  single-handed  (in 
which  I think  him  less  reprehensible,  as  remotely  reflecting 
my  own  character),  and  was  a frightful  instance  of  the  ener- 
vating effects  of  luxury  upon  the  human  race. 

Strange  destiny  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Barlow,  to  go  down  to 
posterity  as  childhood’s  experience  of  a bore.  Immortal  Mr. 
Barlow,  boring  his  way  through  the  verdant  freshness  of  ages  ! 

My  personal  indictment  against  Mr.  Barlow  is  one  of  many 
counts.  I will  proceed  to  set  forth  a few  of  the  injuries  he 
has  done  me. 

In  the  first  place,  he  never  made  or  took  a joke.  This 
insensibility  on  Mr.  Barlow’s  part  not  only  cast  its  own 
gloom  over  my  boyhood,  but  blighted  even  the  sixpenny 
jest-books  of  the  time ; for,  groaning  under  a moral  spell 
constraining  me  to  refer  all  things  to  Mr.  Barlow,  I could  not 
choose  but  ask  myself  in  a whisper  when  tickled  by  a printed 
jest,  What  would  he  think  of  it  ? What  would  he  see  in  it  ? ” 
The  point  of  the  jest  immediately  became  a sting,  and  stung 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


353 


my  conscience.  For  my  mind’s  eye  saw  him  stolid,  frigid, 
perchance  taking  from  its  shelf  some  dreary  Greek  book,  and 
translating  at  full  length  what  some  dismal  sage  said  (and 
touched  up  afterwards,  perhaps,  for  publication),  when  he 
banished  some  unlucky  joker  from  Athens. 

The  incompatibility  of  Mr.  Barlow  with  all  other  portions 
of  my  young  life  but  himself,  the  adamantine  inadaptability 
of  the  man  to  my  favorite  fancies  and  amusements,  is  the 
thing  for  which  I hate  him  most.  What  right  had  he  to 
bore  his  way  into  my  Arabian  Nights  ? Yet  he  did.  He 
was  always  hinting  doubts  of  the  veracity  of  Sindbad  the 
Sailor.  If  he  could  have  got  hold  of  the  Wonderful  Lamp, 
I knew  he  would  have  trimmed  it  and  lighted  it,  and  deliv^ 
ered  a lecture  over  it  on  the  qualities  of  sperm-oil,  with  a 
glance  at  the  whale  fisheries.  He  would  so  soon  have  found 
out  — on  mechanical  principles  — the  peg  in  the  neck  of  the 
Enchanted  Horse,  and  would  have  turned  it  the  right  way 
in  so  workmanlike  a manner,  that  the  horse  could  never 
have  got  any  height  into  the  air,  and  the  story  couldn’t  have 
been.  He  would  have  proved,  by  map  and  compass,  that 
there  was  no  such  kingdom  as  the  delightful  kingdom  of 
Casgar,  on  the  frontiers  of  Tartary.  He  would  have  caused 
that  hypocritical  young  prig  Harry  to  make  an  experiment, 
— with  the  aid  of  a temporary  building  in  the  garden  and 
a dummy,  — demonstrating  that  you  couldn’t  let  a choked 
hunchback  down  an  Eastern  chimney  with  a cord,  and  leave 
him  upright  on  the  hearth  to  terrify  the  sultan’s  purveyor. 

The  golden  sounds  of  the  overture  to  the  first  metropoli- 
tan pantomime,  I remember,  were  alloyed  by  Mr.  Barlow.. 
Click  click,  ting  ting,  bang  bang,  weedle  weedle  weedle, 
bang  ! I recall  the  chilling  air  that  ran  across  my  frame  and 
cooled  my  hot  delight,  as  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  This 
would  never  do  for  Mr.  Barlow  ! ” After  the  curtain  drew 
up,  dreadful  doubts  of  Mr.  Barlow’s  considering  the  costumes 
of  the  Nymphs  of  the  Nebula  as  being  sufficiently  opaque, 
obtruded  themselves  on  my  enjoyment.  In  the  clown  I per- 
ceived two  persons ; one  a fascinating  unaccountable  creature 
of  a hectic  complexion,  joyous  in  spirits  though  feeble  in 
intellect,  with  flashes  of  brilliancy ; the  other  a pupil  for  Mr. 


354 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


Barlow.  I thought  how  Mr.  Barlow  would  secretly  rise  early 
in  the  morning,  and  butter  the  pavement  for  him^  and,  when 
he  had  brought  him  down,  would  look  severely  out  of  his 
study  window  and  ask  him  how  he  enjoyed  the  fun. 

I thought  how  Mr.  Barlow  would  heat  all  the  pokers  in  the 
house,  and  singe  him  with  the  whole  collection,  to  bring  him 
better  acquainted  with  the  properties  of  incandescent  iron, 
on  which  he  (Barlow)  would  fully  expatiate.  I pictured  Mr. 
Barlow’s  instituting  a comparison  between  the  clown’s  con- 
duct at  his  studies,  — drinking  up  the  ink,  licking  his  copy- 
book, and  using  his  head  for  blotting-paper,  — and  that  of  the 
already  mentioned  young  prig  of  prigs,  Harry,  sitting  at  the 
Barlovian  feet,  sneakingly  pretending  to  be  in  a rapture  of 
youthful  knowledge.  I thought  how  soon  Mr.  Barlow  would 
smooth  the  clown’s  hair  down,  instead  of  letting  it  stand 
erect  in  three  tall  tufts ; and  how,  after  a couple  of  years  or 
so  with  Mr.  Barlow,  he  would  keep  his  legs  close  together 
when  he  walked,  and  would  take  his  hands  out  of  his  big 
loose  pockets,  and  wouldn’t  have  a jump  left  in  him. 

That  I am  particularly  ignorant  what  most  things  in  the 
universe  are  made  of,  and  how  they  are  made,  is  another  of 
my  charges  against  Mr.  Barlow.  With  the  dread  upon  me 
of  developing  into  a Harry,  and  with  a further  dread  upon  me 
of  being  Barlowed  if  I made  inquiries,  by  bringing  down 
upon  myself  a cold  shower-bath  of  explanations  and  experi- 
ments, I forbore  enlightenment  in  my  youth,  and  became, 
as  they  say  in  melodramas,  ^^the  wreck  you  now  behold.” 
That  I consorted  with  idlers  and  dunces  is  another  of  the 
melancholy  facts  for  which  I hold  Mr.  Barlow  responsible. 
That  pragmatical  prig,  Harry,  became  so  detestable  in  my 
sight,  that,  he  being  reported  studious  in  the  South,  I would 
have  fled  idle  to  the  extremest  North.  Better  to  learn  mis- 
conduct from  a Master  Mash  than  science  and  statistics  from 
a Sandford  ! So  I took  the  path,  which,  but  for  Mr.  Barlow, 
I might  never  have  trodden.  Thought  I,  with  a shudder, 
Mr.  Barlow  is  a bore,  with  an  immense  constructive  power 
of  making  bores.  His  prize  specimen  is  a bore.  He  seeks 
to  make  a bore  of  me.  That  knowledge  is  power  I am  not 
prepared  to  gainsay ; but,  with  Mr.  Barlow,  knowledge  is 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


355 


power  to  bore/’  Therefore  I took  refuge  in  the  caves  of 
ignorance,  wherein  I have  resided  ever  since,  and  which  are 
still  my  private  address. 

But  the  weightiest  charge  of  all  my  charges  against  Mr. 
Barlow  is,  that  he  still  walks  the  earth  in  various  disguises, 
seeking  to  make  a Tommy  of  me,  even  in  my  maturity.  Irre- 
pressible, instructive  monomaniac,  Mr.  Barlow  fills  my  life 
with  pitfalls,  and  lies  hiding  at  the  bottom  to  burst  out  upon 
me  when  I least  expect  him. 

A few  of  these  dismal  experiences  of  mine  shall  suffice. 

Knowing  Mr.  Barlow  to  have  invested  largely  in  the 
moving  panorama  trade,  and  having  on  various  occasions 
identified  him  in  the  dark  with  a long  wand  in  his  hand, 
holding  forth  in  his  old  way  (made  more  appalling  in  this 
connection  by  his  sometimes  cracking  a piece  of  Mr.  Carlyle’s 
own  Dead-Sea  fruit  in  mistake  for  r joke),  I systematically 
shun  pictorial  entertainment  on  rollers.  Similarly,  I should 
demand  responsible  bail  and  guarant y against  the  appearance 
of  Mr.  Barlow,  before  committing  myself  to  attendance  at 
any  assemblage  of  my  fellow-creatures  where  a bottle  of 
water  and  a note-book  were  conspicuous  objects ; for  in  either 
of  those  associations,  I should  expressly  expect  him.  But 
such  is  the  designing  nature  of  the  man,  that  he  steals  in 
where  no  reasoning  precaution  or  prevision  could  expect  him. 
As  in  the  following  case  : — 

Adjoining  the  Caves  of  Ignorance  is  a country  town.  In 
this  country  town  the  Mississippi  Momuses,  nine  in  number, 
were  announced  to  appear  in  the  town-hall,  for  the  general 
delectation,  this  last  Christmas  week.  Knowing  Mr.  Barlow 
to  be  unconnected  with  the  Mississippi,  though  holding 
republican  opinions,  and  deeming  myself  secure,  I took  a stall. 
My  object  was  to  hear  and  see  the  Mississippi  Momuses  in 
what  the  bills  described  as  their  National  ballads,  planta- 
tion break-downs,  nigger  part-songs,  choice  conundrums, 
sparkling  repartees,  etc.”  I found  the  nine  dressed  alike  in 
the  black  coat  and  trousers,  white  waistcoat,  very  large  shirt- 
front,  very  large  shirt-collar,  and  very  large  white  tie  and 
wristbands,  which  constitute  the  dress  of  the  mass  of  the 
African  race,  and  which  has  been  observed  by  travellers  to 


356 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


prevail  over  a vast  number  of  degrees  of  latitude.  All  the 
nine  rolled  their  eyes  exceedingly,  and  had  very  red  lips.  At 
the  extremities  of  the  curve  they  formed,  seated  in  their 
chairs,  were  the  performers  on  the  tambourine  and  bones. 
The  centre  Momus,  a black  of  melancholy  aspect  (who 
inspired  me  with  a vague  uneasiness  for  which  I could  not 
then  account)  performed  on  a Mississippi  instrument  closely 
resembling  what  was  once  called  in  this  island  a hurdy-gurdy. 
The  Momuses  on  either  side  of  him  had  each  another  instru- 
ment peculiar  to  the  Father  of  Waters,  which  may  be  likened 
to  a stringed  weather-glass  held  upside  down.  There  were 
likewise  a little  flute  and  a violin.  All  went  well  for  a 
while,  and  we  had  had  several  sparkling  repartees  exchanged 
between  the  performers  on  the  tambourine  and  bones,  when 
the  black  of  melancholy  aspect,  turning  to  the  latter,  and 
addressing  him  in  a deep  and  improving  voice  as  Bones, 
sir,”  delivered  certain  grave  remarks  to  him  concerning  the 
juveniles  present,  and  the  season  of  the  year ; whereon  I 
perceived  that  I was  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Barlow,  — corked  ! 

Another  night  — and  this  was  in  London  — I attended  the 
representation  of  a little  comedy.  As  the  characters  were 
lifelike  (and  consequently  not  improving),  and  as  they  went 
upon  their  several  ways  and  designs  without  personally 
addressing  themselves  to  me,  I felt  rather  confldent  of  coming 
through  it  without  being  regarded  as  Tommy,  the  more  so, 
as  we  were  clearly  getting  close  to  the  end.  But  I deceived 
myself.  All  of  a sudden,  and  apropos  of  nothing,  everybody 
concerned  came  to  a check  and  halt,  advanced  to  the  foot- 
lights in  a general  rally  to  take  dead  aim  at  me,  and  brought 
me  down  with  a moral  homily,  in  which  I detected  the  dread 
hand  of  Barlow. 

Nay,  so  intricate  and  subtle  are  the  toils  of  this  hunter, 
that  on  the  very  next  night  after  that,  I was  again  entrapped, 
where  no  vestige  of  a spring  could  have  been  apprehended 
by  the  timidest.  It  was  a burlesque  that  I saw  performed ; 
an  uncompromising  burlesque,  where  everybody  concerned, 
but  especially  the  ladies,  carried  on  at  a very  considerable  rate 
indeed.  Most  prominent  and  active  among  the  corps  of 
performers  was  what  I took  to  be  (and  she  really  gave  me 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


357 


very  fair  opportunities  of  coming  to  a right  conclusion)  a 
young  lady  of  a pretty  figure.  She  was  dressed  as  a pic- 
turesque young  gentleman  whose  pantaloons  had  been  cut 
off  in  their  infancy ; and  she  had  very  neat  knees  and  very 
neat  satin  boots.  Immediately  after  singing  a slang  song 
and  dancing  a slang  dance,  this  engaging  figure  approached 
the  fatal  lamps,  and,  bending  over  them,  delivered  in  a 
thrilling  voice  a random  eulogium  on,  and  exhortation  to 
pursue,  the  virtues.  Great  Heaven ! was  my  exclama- 
tion ; Barlow  ! 

There  is  still  another  aspect  in  which  Mr.  Barlow  per- 
petually insists  on  my  sustaining  the  character  of  Tommy, 
which  is  more  unendurable  yet,  on  account  of  its  extreme 
aggressiveness.  For  the  purposes  of  a review  or  newspaper, 
he  will  get  up  an  abstruse  subject  with  infinite  pains,  will 
Barlow,  utterly  regardless  of  the  price  of  midnight  oil, 
and  indeed  of  everything  else,  save  cramming  himself  to 
the  eyes. 

But  mark.  When  Mr.  Barlow  blows  his  information  off, 
he  is  not  contented  with  having  rammed  it  home,  and  dis- 
charged it  upon  me.  Tommy,  his  target,  but  he  pretends  that 
he  was  always  in  possession  of  it,  and  made  nothing  of  it,  — 
that  he  imbibed  it  with  mother’s  milk,  — and  that  I,  the 
wretched  Tommy,  am  most  abjectly  behind-hand  in  not  having 
done  the  same.  I ask,  why  is  Tommy  to  be  always  the  foil 
of  Mr.  Barlow  to  this  extent  ? What  Mr.  Barlow  had  not 
the  slightest  notion  of  himself,  a week  ago,  it  surely  cannot 
be  any  very  heavy  backsliding  in  me  not  to  have  at  my 
fingers’  ends  to-day  ! And  yet  Mr.  Barlow  systematically 
carries  it  over  me  with  a high  hand,  and  will  tauntingly  ask 
me,  in  his  articles,  whether  it  is  possible  that  I am  not  aware 
that  every  schoolboy  knows  that  the  fourteenth  turning  on 
the  left  in  the  steppes  of  Kussia  will  conduct  to  such  and 
such  a wandering  tribe  ! with  other  disparaging  questions  of 
like  nature.  So,  when  Mr.  Barlow  addresses  a letter  to  any 
journal  as  a volunteer  correspondent  (which  I frequently  find 
him  doing),  he  will  previously  have  gotten  somebody  to  tell 
him  some  tremendous  technicality,  and  will  write  in  the 
coolest  manner,  ^^How,  sir,  I may  assume  that  every  reader 


358 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


of  your  columns,  possessing  average  information  and  intelli- 
gence, knows  as  well  as  I do  that  ” — say  that  the  draught 
from  the  touch-hole  of  a cannon  of  such  a calibre  bears  such 
a proportion  in  the  nicest  fractions  to  the  draught  from  the 
muzzle ; or  some  equally  familiar  little  fact.  But  whatever 
it  is,  be  certain  that  it  always  tends  to  the  exaltation  of 
Mr.  Barlow,  and  the  depression  of  his  enforced  and  enslaved 
pupil. 

Mr.  Barlow’s  knowledge  of  my  own  pursuits  1 find  to  be 
so  profound,  that  my  own  knowledge  of  them  becomes  as 
nothing.  Mr.  Barlow  (disguised  and  bearing  a feigned 
name,  but  detected  by  me)  has  occasionally  taught  me,  in  a 
sonorous  voice,  from  end  to  end  of  a long  dinner-table,  trifles 
that  I took  the  liberty  of  teaching  him  five  and  twenty  years 
ago.  My  closing  article  of  impeachment  against  Mr.  Barlow 
is,  that  he  goes  out  to  breakfast,  goes  out  to  dinner,  goes  out 
everywhere,  high  and  low,  and  that  he  will  preach  to  me, 
and  that  I can’t  get  rid  of  him.  He  makes  of  me  a Prome- 
thean Tommy,  bound;  and  he  is  the  vulture  that  gorges  itself 
upon  the  liver  of  my  uninstructed  mind. 


THE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TEAVELLEB. 


359 


XXXIV. 

ON  AN  AMATEUR  BEAT. 

It  is  one  of  my  fancies,  that  even  my  idlest  walk  must 
always  have  its  appointed  destination.  I set  myself  a task 
before  I leave  my  lodging  in  Covent-garden  on  a street 
expedition,  and  should  no  more  think  of  altering  my  route 
by  the  way,  or  turning  back  and  leaving  a part  of  it  un- 
achieved, than  I should  think  of  fraudulently  violating  an 
agreement  entered  into  with  somebody  else.  The  other  day, 
finding  myself  under  this  kind  of  obligation  to  proceed  to 
Limehouse,  I started  punctually  at  noon,  in  compliance  with 
the  terms  of  the  contract  with  myself  to  which  my  good  faith 
was  pledged. 

On  such  an  occasion,  it  is  my  habit  to  regard  my  walk  as 
my  beat,  and  myself  as  a higher  sort  of  police-constable  doing 
duty  on  the  same.  There  is  many  a ruffian  in  the  streets 
whom  I mentally  collar  and  clear  out  of  them,  who  would  see 
mighty  little  of  London,  I can  tell  him,  if  I could  deal  with 
him  physically. 

Issuing  forth  upon  this  very  beat,  and  following  with  my 
eyes  three  hulking  garroters  on  their  way  home,  — which 
home  I could  confidently  swear  to  be  within  so  many  yards 
of  Drury  Lane,  in  such  a narrow  and  restricted  direction 
(though  they  live  in  their  lodging  quite  as  undisturbed  as  I 
in  mine),  — I went  on  duty  with  a consideration  which  I 
respectfully  offer  to  the  new  Chief  Commissioner,  — in  whom 
I thoroughly  confide  as  a tried  and  efficient  public  servant. 
How  often  (thought  I)  have  I been  forced  to  swallow,  in 
police-reports,  the  intolerable  stereotyped  pill  of  nonsense, 
how  that  the  police-constable  informed  the  worth}^  magistrate 
how  that  the  associates  of  the  prisoner  did,  at  that  present 
speaking,  dwetl  in  a street  or  court  which  no  man  dared  go 
down,  and  how  that  the  worthy  magistrate  had  heard  of  the 


360 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


dark  reputation  of  such  street  or  court,  and  how  that  our 
readers  would  doubtless  remember  that  it  was  always  the 
same  street  or  court  which  was  thus  edifyingly  discoursed 
about,  say  once  a fortnight. 

Now,  suppose  that  a Chief  Commissioner  sent  round  a 
circular  to  every  division  of  police  employed  in  London, 
requiring  instantly  the  names  in  all  districts  of  all  such 
much-puffed  streets  or  courts  which  no  man  durst  go  down ; 
and  suppose  that  in  such  circular  he  gave  plain  warning. 
If  those  places  really  exist,  they  are  a proof  of  police  ineffi- 
ciency which  I mean  to  punish ; and  if  they  do  not  exist,  but 
are  a conventional  fiction,  then  they  are  a proof  of  lazy  tacit 
police  connivance  with  professional  crime,  which  I also  mean 
to  punish  — what  then  ? Fictions  or  realities,  could  they 
survive  the  touchstone  of  this  atom  of  common-sense  ? To 
tell  us  in  open  court,  until  it  has  become  as  trite  a feature  of 
news  as  the  great  gooseberry,  that  a costly  police-system  such 
as  was  never  before  heard  of,  has  left  in  London,  in  the  days 
of  steam  and  gas  and  photographs  of  thieves  and  electric 
telegraphs,  the  sanctuaries  and  stews  of  the  Stuarts  ! Why, 
a parity  of  practice,  in  all  departments,  would  bring  back  the 
Plague  in  two  summers,  and  the  Druids  in  a century ! 

Walking  faster  under  nxy  share  of  this  public  injury,  I 
overturned  a wretched  little  creature,  who,  clutching  at  the 
rags  of  a pair  of  trousers  with  one  of  its  claws,  and  at  its 
ragged  hair  with  the  other,  pattered  with  bare  feet  over  the 
muddy  stones.  I stopped  to  raise  and  succor  this  poor  weep- 
ing wretch,  and  fifty  like  it,  but  of  both  sexes,  were  about  me 
in  a moment,  begging,  tumbling,  fighting,  clamoring,  yelling, 
shivering  in  their  nakedness  and  hunger.  The  piece  of 
money  I had  put  into  the  claw  of  the  child  I had  overturned 
was  clawed  out  of  it,  and  was  again  clawed  out  of  that  wolfish 
gripe,  and  again  out  of  that,  and  soon  I had  no  notion  in  what 
part  of  the  obscene  scuffle  in  the  mud,  of  rags  and  legs  and 
arms  and  dirt,  the  money  might  be.  In  raising  the  child,  I 
had  drawn  it  aside  out  of  the  main  thoroughfare,  and  this  took 
place  among  some  wooden  hoardings  and  barriers  and  ruins  of 
demolished  buildings,  hard  by  Temple  Bar. 

Unexpectedly,  from  among  them  emerged  a genuine  police 


POODLES  GOING  THE  ROUND. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


361 


constable,  before  whom  the  dreadful  brood  dispersed  in  various 
directions,  he  making  feints  and  darts  in  this  direction  and  in 
that,  and  catching  nothing.  When  all  were  frightened  away, 
he  took  off  his  hat,  pulled  out  a handkerchief  from  it,  wiped 
his  heated  brow,  and  restored  the  handkerchief  and  hat  to 
their  places,  with  the  air  of  a man  who  had  discharged  a great 
moral  duty,  — as  indeed  he  had,  in  doing  what  was  set  down 
for  him.  I looked  at  him,  and  I looked  about  at  the  dis- 
orderly traces  in  the  mud,  and  I thought  of  the  drops  of  rain 
and  the  footprints  of  an  extinct  creature,  hoary  ages  upon 
ages  old,  that  geologists  have  identified  on  the  face  of  a clift ; 
and  this  speculation  came  over  me  : If  this  mud  could  petrify 
at  this  moment,  and  could  lie  concealed  here  for  ten  thousand 
years,  I wonder  whether  the  race  of  men  then  to  be  our  suc- 
cessors on  the  earth,  could,  from  these  or  any  marks,  by  the 
utmost  force  of  the  human  intellect  unassisted  by  tradition, 
deduce  such  an  astounding  inference  as  the  existence  of  a 
polished  state  of  society  that  bore  with  the  public  savagery  of 
neglected  children  in  the  streets  of  its  capital  city,  and  was 
proud  of  its  power  by  sea  and  land,  and  never  used  its  power 
to  seize  and  save  them  ! 

After  this,  when  I came  to  the  Old  Bailey  and  glanced  up 
it  towards  Newgate,  I found  that  the  prison  had  an  inconsist- 
ent look.  There  seemed  to  be  some  unlucky  inconsistency  in 
the  atmosphere  that  day ; for  though  the  proportions  of  St. 
Pauks  cathedral  are  very  beautiful,  it  had  an  air  of  being 
somewhat  out  of  drawing,  in  my  eyes.  I felt  as  though  the 
cross  were  too  high  up,  and  perched  upon  the  intervening 
golden  ball  too  far  away. 

Facing  eastward,  I left  behind  me  Smithfield  and  old 
Bailey, — fire  and  fagot,  condemned  hold,  public  hanging, 
whipping  through  the  city  at  the  cart-tail,  pillory,  branding- 
iron,  and  other  beautiful  ancestral  landmarks,  which  rude 
hands  have  rooted  up,  without  bringing  the  stars  quite  down 
upon  us  as  yet,  — and  went  my  way  upon  my  beat,  noting 
how  oddly  characteristic  neighborhoods  are  divided  from  one 
another,  hereabout,  as  though  by  an  invisible  line  across  the 
way.  Here  shall  cease  the  bankers  and  the  money-changers  ; 
here  shall  begin  the  shipping  interest  and  the  na\itical-instru- 


362 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


merit  shops ; here  shall  follow  a scarcely  perceptible  flavoring 
of  groceries  and  drugs ; here  shall  come  a strong  infusion  of 
butchers ; now,  small  hosiers  shall  be  in  the  ascendent ; hence- 
forth, everything  exposed  for  sale  shall  have  its  ticketed 
price  attached.  All  this  as  if  specially  ordered  and  appointed. 

A single  stride  at  Houndsditch  Church,  no  wider  than 
sufflced  to  cross  the  kennel  at  the  bottom  of  the  Canon-gate, 
which  the  debtors  in  Holyrood  sanctuary  were  wont  to  relieve 
their  minds  by  skipping  over,  as  Scott  relates,  and  standing 
in  delightful  daring  of  catchpoles  on  the  free  side,  — a single 
stride,  and  everything  is  entirely  changed  in  grain  and  char- 
acter. West  of  the  stride,  a table,  or  a chest  of  drawers  on 
sale,  shall  be  of  mahogany  and  French-polished ; east  of  the 
stride,  it  shall  be  of  deal,  smeared  with  a cheap  counterfeit 
resembling  lip-salve.  West  of  the  stride,  a penny  loaf  or  bun 
shall  be  compact  and  self-contained ; east  of  the  stride,  it  shall 
be  of  a sprawling  and  splay-footed  character,  as  seeking  to 
make  more  of  itself  for  the  money.  My  beat  lying  round  by 
Whitechapel  Church,  and  the  adjacent  sugar-refineries, — 
great  buildings,  tier  upon  tier,  that  have  the  appearance  of 
being  nearly  related  to  the  dock-warehouses  at  Liverpool,  — 
I turned  off  to  my  right,  and  passing  round  the  awkward 
corner  on  my  left,  came  suddenly  on  an  apparition  familiar  to 
London  streets  afar  off. 

What  London  peripatetic  of  these  times  has  not  seen  the 
woman  who  has  fallen  forward,  double,  through  some  affec- 
tion of  the  spine,  and  whose  head  has  of  late  taken  a turn  to 
one  side,  so  that  it  now  droops  over  the  back  of  one  of  her 
arms  at  about  the  wrist  ? Who  does  not  know  her  staff,  and 
her  shawl,  and  her  basket,  as  she  gropes  her  way  along,  capa- 
ble of  seeing  nothing  but  the  pavement,  never  begging,  never 
stopping,  forever  going  somewhere  on  no  business  ? How 
does  she  live,  whence  does  she  come,  whither  does  she  go,  and 
why  ? I mind  the  time  when  her  yellow  arms  were  naught 
but  bone  and  parchment.  Slight  changes  steal  over  her ; for 
there  is  a shadowy  suggestion  of  human  skin  on  them  now. 
The  Strand  may  be  taken  as  the  central  point  about  which 
she  revolves  in  a half-mile  orbit.  How  comes  she  so  far  east 
as  this  ? And  coming  back  too ! Having  been  how  much 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


363 


farther?  She  is  a rare  spectacle  in  this  neighborhood.  I 
receive  intelligent  information  to  this  effect  from  a dog,  — a 
lop-sided  mongrel  with  a foolish  tail,  plodding  along  with  his 
tail  up,  and  his  ears  pricked,  and  displaying  an  amiable  inter- 
est in  the  ways  of  his  fellow-men,  — if  I may  be  allowed  the 
expression.  After  pausing  at  a pork-shop,  he  is  jogging  east- 
ward like  myself,  with  a benevolent  countenance  and  a watery 
mouth,  as  though  musing  on  the  many  excellences  of  pork, 
when  he  beholds  this  doubled-up  bundle  approaching.  He  is 
not  so  much  astonished  at  the  bundle  (though  amazed  by  that), 
as  the  circumstance  that  it  has  within  itself  the  means  of  loco- 
motion. He  stops,  pricks  his  ears  higher,  makes  a slight  point, 
stares,  utters  a short,  low  growl,  and  glistens  at  the  nose,  — 
as  I conceive  with  terror.  The  bundle  continuing  to  approach, 
he  barks,  turns  tail,  and  is  about  to  fly,  when,  arguing  with 
himself  that  flight  is  not  becoming  in  a dog,  he  turns,  and  once 
more  faces  the  advancing  heap  of  clothes.  After  much  hesi- 
tation, it  occurs  to  him  that  there  may  be  a face  in  it  some- 
where. Desperately  resolving  to  undertake  the  adventure, 
and  pursue  the  inquiry,  he  goes  slowly  up  to  the  bundle,  goes 
slowly  round  it,  and  coming  at  length  upon  the  human  coun- 
tenance down  there  where  never  human  countenance  should 
be,  gives  a yelp  of  horror,  and  flies  for  the  East  India  Docks. 

Being  now  in  the  Commercial  Boad  district  of  my  beat,  and 
bethinking  myself  that  Stepney  station  is  near,  I quicken  my 
pace  that  I may  turn  out  of  the  road  at  that  point,  and  see 
how  my  small  eastern  star  is  shining. 

The  Children’s  Hospital,  to  which  I gave  that  name,  is  in 
full  force.  All  its  beds  are  occupied.  There  is  a new  face 
on  the  bed  where  my  pretty  baby  lay,  and  that  sweet  little 
child  is  now  at  rest  forever.  Much  kind  sympathy  has  been 
here  since  my  former  visit,  and  it  is  good  to  see  the  walls  pro- 
fusely garnished  with  dolls.  I wonder  what  Poodles  may 
think  of  them,  as  they  stretch  out  their  arms  above  the  beds, 
and  stare,  and  display  their  splendid  dresses.  Poodles  has  a 
greater  interest  in  the  patients.  I find  him  making  the 
round  of  the  beds,  like  a house-surgeon,  attended  by  another 
dog,  — a friend,  — who  appears  to  trot  about  with  him  in  the 
character  of  his  pupil  dresser.  Poodles  is  anxious  to  make 


364 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


me  known  to  a pretty  little  girl  looking  wonderfully  healthy 
who  had  had  a leg  taken  off  for  cancer  of  the  knee.  A diffi- 
cult operation^  Poodles  intimates,  wagging  his  tail  on  the 
counterpane,  but  perfectly  successful,  as  you  see,  dear  sir ! 
The  patient,  patting  Poodles,  adds  with  a smile,  ^^The  leg 
was  so  much  trouble  to  me,  that  I am  glad  it’s  gone.”  I 
never  saw  anything  in  doggery  finer  than  the  deportment  of 
Poodles,  when  another  little  girl  opens  her  mouth  to  show  a 
peculiar  enlargement  of  the  tongue.  Poodles  (at  that  time 
on  a table,  to  be  on  a level  with  the  occasion)  looks  at  the 
tongue  (with  his  own  sympathetically  out)  so  very  gravely 
and  knowingly,  that  I feel  inclined  to  put  my  hand  in  my 
waistcoat  pocket,  and  give  him  a guinea,  wrapped  in  paper. 

On  my  beat  again,  and  close  to  Limehouse  Church,  its  ter- 
mination, I found  myself  near  to  certain  Lead-Mills.”  Struck 
by  the  name,  which  was  fresh  in  my  memory,  and  finding,  on 
inquiry,  that  these  same  lead-mills  were  identified  with  those 
same  lead-mills  of  which  I made  mention  when  I first  visited 
the  East  London  Children’s  Hospital  and  its  neighborhood  as 
Uncommercial  Traveller,  I resolved  to  have  a look  at  them. 

Received  by  two  very  intelligent  gentlemen,  brothers,  and 
partners  with  their  father  in  the  concern,  and  who  testified 
every  desire  to  show  their  works  to  me  freely,  I went  over 
the  lead-mills.  The  purport  of  such  works  is  the  conversion 
of  pig-lead  into  white-lead.  This  conversion  is  brought  about 
by  the  slow  and  gradual  effecting  of  certain  successive  chemi- 
cal changes  in  the  lead  itself.  The  processes  are  picturesque 
and  interesting  — the  most  so,  being  the  burying  of  the  lead, 
at  a certain  stage  of  preparation,  in  pots,  each  pot  containing 
a certain  quantity  of  acid  besides,  and  all  the  pots  being  buried 
in  vast  numbers,  in  layers,  under  tan,  for  some  ten  weeks. 

Hopping  up  ladders,  and  across  planks,  and  on  elevated 
perches,  until  I was  uncertain  whether  to  liken  myself  to  a 
bird  or  a bricklayer,  I became  conscious  of  standing  on  noth- 
ing particular,  looking  down  into  one  of  a series  of  large 
cocklofts,  with  the  outer  day  peeping  in  through  the  chinks 
ill  the  tiled  roof  above.  A number  of  women  were  ascending 
to,  and  descending  from,  this  cockloft,  each  carrying  on  the 
upward  journey  a pot  of  prepared  lead  and  acid  for  deposi- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


365 


tion  under  the  smoking  tan.  When  one  layer  of  pots  was 
completely  filled,  it  was  carefully  covered  in  with  planks,  and 
those  were  carefully  covered  with  tan  again,  and  then  another 
layer  of  pots  was  begun  above  ; sufficient  means  of  ventila- 
tion being  preserved  through  wooden  tubes.  Going  down 
into  the  cockloft  then  filling,  I found  the  heat  of  the  tan  to 
be  surprisingly  great,  and  also  the  odor  of  the  lead  and  acid 
to  be  not  absolutely  exquisite,  though  I believe  not  noxious  at 
that  stage.  In  other  cocklofts,  where  the  pots  were  being 
exhumed,  the  heat  of  the  steaming  tan  was  much  greater, 
and  the  smell  was  penetrating  and  peculiar.  There  were 
cocklofts  in  all  stages  ; full  and  empty,  half  filled  and  half 
emptied ; strong,  active  women  were  clambering  about  them 
busily  ; and  the  whole  thing  had  rather  the  air  of  the  upper 
part  of  the  house  of  some  immensely  rich  old  Turk,  whose 
faithful  seraglio  were  hiding  his  money  because  the  sultan  or 
the  pasha  was  coming. 

As  is  the  case  with  most  pulps  or  pigments,  so  in  the  in- 
stance of  this  white-lead,  processes  of  stirring,  separating, 
washing,  grinding,  rolling,  and  pressing  succeed.  Some  of 
these  are  unquestionably  inimical  to  health,  the  danger  aris- 
ing from  inhalation  of  particles  of  lead,  or  from  contact 
between  the  lead  and  the  touch,  or  both.  Against  these 
dangers,  I found  good  respirators  provided  (simply  made  of 
flannel  and  muslin,  so  as  to  be  inexpensively  renewed,  and 
in  some  instances  washed  with  scented  soap),  and  gauntlet 
gloves,  and  loose  gowns.  Everywhere,  there  was  as  much 
fresh  air  as  windows,  well  placed  and  open,  could  possibly 
admit.  And  it  was  explained  that  the  precaution  of  fre- 
quently changing  the  women  employed  in  the  worst  parts  of 
the  work  (a  precaution  originating  in  their  own  experience  or 
apprehension  of  its  ill  effects)  was  found  salutary.  They  had 
a mysterious  and  singular  appearance,  with  the  mouth  and 
nose  covered,  and  the  loose  gown  on,  and  yet  bore  out  the 
simile  of  the  old  Turk  and  the  seraglio  all  the  better  for  the 
disguise. 

At  last  this  vexed  white-lead,  having  been  buried  and  resus- 
citated, and  heated  and  cooled  and  stirred,  and  separated  and 
washed  and  ground,  and  rolled  and  pressed,  is  subjected  to 


366 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  action  of  intense  fiery  heat.  A row  of  women,  dressed 
as  above  described,  stood,  let  us  say,  in  a large  stone  bake- 
house, passing  on  the  baking-dishes  as  they  were  given  out 
by  the  cooks,  from  hand  to  hand,  into  the  ovens.  The  oven, 
or  stove,  cold  as  yet,  looked  as  high  as  an  ordinary  house, 
and  was  full  of  men  and  women  on  temporary  footholds, 
briskly  passing  up  and  stowing  away  the  dishes.  The  door 
of  another  oven,  or  stove,  about  to  be  cooled  and  emptied, 
was  opened  from  above,  for  the  uncommercial  countenance  to 
peer  down  into.  The  uncommercial  countenance  withdrew 
itself,  with  expedition  and  a sense  of  suffocation,  from  the 
dull-glowing  heat  and  the  overpowering  smell.  On  the  whole, 
perhaps  the  going  into  these  stoves  to  work,  when  they  are 
freshly  opened,  may  be  the  worst  part  of  the  occupation. 

But  I made  it  out  to  be  indubitable  that  the  owners  of 
these  lead-mills  honestly  and  sedulously  try  to  reduce  the 
dangers  of  the  occupation  to  the  lowest  point. 

A washing-place  is  provided  for  the  women  (I  thought  there 
might  have  been  more  towels),  and  a room  in  which  they  hang 
their  clothes,  and  take  their  meals,  and  where  they  have  a 
good  fire-range  and  fire,  and  a female  attendant  to  help  them, 
and  to  watch  that  they  do  not  neglect  the  cleansing  of  their 
hands  before  touching  their  food.  An  experienced  medical 
attendant  is  provided  for  them,  and  any  premonitory  symptoms 
of  lead-poisoning  are  carefully  treated.  Their  teapots  and 
such  things  were  set  out  on  tables  ready  for  their  afternoon 
meal,  when  I saw  their  room ; and  it  had  a homely  look.  It 
is  found  that  they  bear  the  work  much  better  than  men : some 
few  of  them  have  been  at  it  for  years,  and  the  great  majority 
of  those  I observed  were  strong  and  active.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  should  be  remembered  that  most  of  them  are  very 
capricious  and  irregular  in  their  attendance. 

American  inventiveness  would  seem  to  indicate  that  before 
very  long  white-lead  may  be  made  entirely  by  machinery. 
The  sooner,  the  better.  In  the  mean  time,  I parted  from  my 
two  frank  conductors  over  the  mills,  by  telling  them  that 
they  had  nothing  there  to  be  concealed,  and  nothing  to  be 
blamed  for.  As  to  the  rest,  the  philosophy  of  the  matter  of 
lead-poisoning  and  workpeople  seems  to  me  to  have  been 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


367 


pretty  fairly  summed  up  by  the  Irishwoman  whom  I quoted 
in  my  former  paper : Some  of  them  gets  lead-pisoned  soon, 
and  some  of  them  gets  lead-pisoned  later,  and  some,  but  not 
many,  niver;  and  ’tis  all  according  to  the  constitooshun,  sur; 
and  some  constitooshuns  is  strong  and  some  is  weak.’’ 

Ketracing  my  footsteps  over  my  beat,  I went  off  duty. 


368 


TEE  UNCOMMEECIAL  TBAVELLEB. 


XXXV. 

A PLEA  FOR  TOTAL  ABSTINENCE. 

One  day  this  last  Whitsuntide,  at  precisely  eleven  o’clock  in 
the  forenoon,  there  suddenly  rode  into  the  field  of  view  com- 
manded by  the  windows  of  my  lodging  an  equestrian  phe- 
nomenon. It  was  a fellow-creature  on  horseback,  dressed  in 
the  absurdest  manner.  The  fellow-creature  wore  high  boots  ; 
some  other  (and  much  larger)  fellow-creature’s  breeches,  of 
a slack-baked  doughy  color  and  a baggy  form ; a blue  shirt, 
whereof  the  skirt,  or  tail,  was  puffily  tucked  into  the  waist- 
band of  the  said  breeches  ; no  coat ; a red  shoulder-belt ; and 
a demi-semi-military  scarlet  hat,  with  a feathered  ornament 
in  front,  which,  to  the  uninstructed  human  vision,  had  the 
appearance  of  a moulting  shuttlecock.  I laid  down  the  news- 
paper with  which  I had  been  occupied,  and  surveyed  the 
fellow-man  in  question  with  astonishment.  Whether  he  had 
been  sitting  to  any  painter  as  a frontispiece  for  a new  edition 
of  Sartor  Resartus ; ” whether  the  husk  or  shell  of  him,” 
as  the  esteemed  Herr  Teufelsdroch  might  put  it,  were  founded 
on  a jockey,  on  a circus,  on  General  Garibaldi,  on  cheap  por- 
celain, on  a toy-shop,  on  Guy  Fawkes,  on  wax-work,  on  gold- 
digging, on  Bedlam,  or  on  all,  — were  doubts  that  greatly 
exercised  my  mind.  Meanwhile,  my  fellow-man  stumbled  and 
slided,  excessively  against  his  will,  on  the  slippery  stones  of 
my  Covent-garden  Street,  and  elicited  shrieks  from  several 
sympathetic  females,  by  convulsively  restraining  himself  from 
pitching  over  his  horse’s  head.  In  the  very  crisis  of  these 
evolutions,  and  indeed  at  the  trying  moment  when  his 
charger’s  tail  was  in  a tobacconist’s  shop,  and  his  head  any- 
where about  town,  this  cavalier  was  joined  by  two  similar 
portents,  who,  likewise  stumbling  and  sliding,  caused  him  to 
stumble  and  slide  the  more  distressingly.  At  length  this 
Gilpinian  triumvirate  effected  a halt,  and,  looking  northward, 


THE  XJNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


369 


waved  their  three  right  hands  as  commanding  unseen  troops, 
to  Up,  guards  ! and  at  ’em.’’  Hereupon  a brazen  band  burst 
forth,  which  caused  them  to  be  instantly  bolted  with  to  some 
remote  spot  of  earth  in  the  direction  of  the  Surrey  Hills. 

Judging  from  these  appearances  that  a procession  was 
under  way,  I threw  up  my  window,  and,  craning  out,  had  the 
satisfaction  of  beholding  it  advancing  along  the  streets.  It 
was  a Teetotal  procession,  as  I learnt  from  its  banners,  and 
was  long  enough  to  consume  twenty  minutes  in  passing. 
There  were  a great  number  of  children  in  it,  some  of  them 
so  very  young  in  their  mothers’  arms  as  to  be  in  the  act  of 
practically  exemplifying  their  abstinence  from  fermented 
liquors,  and  attachment  to  an  unintoxicating  drink,  while 
the  procession  defiled.  The  display  was,  on  the  whole, 
pleasant  to  see,  as  any  good-humored  holiday  assemblage  of 
clean,  cheerful,  and  well-conducted  people  should  be.  It  was 
bright  with  ribbons,  tinsel,  and  shoulder-belts,  and  abounded 
in  flowers,  as  if  those  latter  trophies  had  come  up  in  profusion 
under  much  watering.  The  day  being  breezy,  the  insubordi- 
nation of  the  large  banners  was  very  reprehensible.  Each  of 
these  being  borne  aloft  on  two  poles  and  stayed  with  some 
half-dozen  lines,  was  carried,  as  polite  books  in  the  last  cen- 
tury used  to  be  written,  by  various  hands,”  and  the  anxiety 
expressed  in  the  upturned  faces  of  those  officers,  — something 
between  the  anxiety  attendant  on  the  balancing  art,  and  that 
inseparable  from  the  pastime  of  kite-flying,  with  a touch  of 
the  angler’s  quality  in  landing  his  scaly  prey,  — much  im- 
pressed me.  Suddenly,  too,  a banner  would  shiver  in  the 
wind,  and  go  about  in  the  most  inconvenient  manner.  This 
always  happened  oftenest  with  such  gorgeous  standards  as 
those  representing  a gentleman  in  black,  corpulent  with  tea 
and  water,  in  the  laudable  act  of  summarily  reforming  a 
family  feeble  and  pinched  with  beer.  The  gentleman  in 
black  distended  by  wind  would  then  conduct  himself  with 
the  most  unbecoming  levity,  while  the  beery  family,  growing 
beerier,  would  frantically  try  to  tear  themselves  away  from 
his  ministration.  Some  of  the  inscriptions  accompanying  the 
banners  were  of  a highly  determined  character,  as  We  never, 
never  will  give  up  the  temperance  cause,”  with  similar  sound 


370 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


resolutions  rather  suggestive  to  the  profane  mind  of  Mrs. 
Micawber’s  I never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber,’’  and  of  Mr. 
Micawber’s  retort,  Really,  my  dear,  I am  not  aware  that  you 
were  ever  required  by  any  human. being  to  do  anything  of  the 
sort.’^ 

At  intervals,  a gloom  would  fall  on  the  passing  members  of 
the  procession,  for  which  I was  at  first  unable  to  account. 
But  this  I discovered,  after  a little  observation,  to  be  occa- 
sioned by  the  coming  on  of  the  executioners,  — the  terrible 
official  beings  who  were  to  make  the  speeches  by  and  by,  — 
who  were  distributed  in  open  carriages  at  various  points  of 
the  cavalcade.  A dark  cloud  and  a sensation  of  dampness, 
as  from  many  wet  blankets,  invariably  preceded  the  rolling 
on  of  the  dreadful  cars  containing  these  headsmen;  and  I 
noticed  that  the  wretched  people  who  closely  followed  them, 
and  who  vere  in  a manner  forced  to  contemplate  their  folded 
arms,  complacent  countenances,  and  threatening  lips,  were 
more  overshadowed  by  the  cloud  and  damp  than  those  in 
front.  Indeed,  I perceived  in  some  of  these  so  moody  an 
implacability  towards  the  magnates  of  the  scaffold,  and  so 
plain  a desire  to  tear  them  limb  from  limb,  that  I would 
respectfully  suggest  to  the  managers  the  expediency  of  con- 
veying the  executioners  to  the  scene  of  their  dismal  labors  by 
unfrequented  ways,  and  in  closely  tilted  carts  next  Whitsun- 
tide. 

The  procession  was  composed  of  a series  of  smaller  proces- 
sions, which  had  come  together,  each  from  its  own  Metropoli- 
tan district.  An  infusion  of  allegory  became  perceptible 
when  patriotic  Peckham  advanced.  So  I judged,  from  the 
circumstance  of  Peckham’s  unfurling  a silken  banner  that 
fanned  heaven  and  earth  with  the  words,  The  Peckham  Life- 
boat.’’ No  boat  being  in  attendance,  though  life,  in  the  like- 
ness of  a gallant,  gallant  crew,”  in  nautical  uniform  followed 
the  flag,  I was  led  to  meditate  on  the  fact  that  Peckham  is 
described  by  geographers  as  an  inland  settlement,  with  no 
larger  or  nearer  shore-line  than  the  towing-path  of  the  Surrey 
Canal,  on  which  stormy  station  I had  been  given  to  under- 
stand no  life-boat  exists.  Thus  I deduced  an  allegorical 
meaning,  and  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  if  patriotic  Peck- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


371 


ham  picked  a peck  of  pickled  poetry,  this  was  the  peck  of 
pickled  poetry  which  patriotic  Peckham  picked. 

I have  observed  that  the  aggregate  procession  was  on  the 
whole  pleasant  to  see.  I made  use  of  that  qualified  expres- 
sion with  a direct  meaning,  which  I will  now  explain.  It 
involves  the  title  of  this  paper,  and  a little  fair  trying  of 
teetotalism  by  its  own  tests.  There  were  many  people  on 
foot,  and  many  people  in  vehicles  of  various  kinds.  The 
former  were  pleasant  to  see,  and  the  latter  were  not  pleasant 
to  see;  for  the  reason  that  I never,  on  any  occasion  or  under 
any  circumstances,  have  beheld  heavier  overloading  of  horses 
than  in  this  public  show.  Unless  the  imposition  of  a great 
van  laden  with  from  ten  to  twenty  people  on  a single  horse 
be  a moderate  tasking  of  the  poor  creature,  then  the  temperate 
use  of  horses  was  immoderate  and  cruel.  From  the  smallest 
and  lightest  horse  to  the  largest  and  heaviest,  there  were 
many  instances  in  which  the  beast  of  burden  was  so  shame- 
fully overladen,  that  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Animals  have  frequently  interposed  in  less  gross  cases. 

Now,  I have  always  held  that  there  may  be,  and  that  there 
unquestionably  is,  such  a thing  as  use  without  abuse,  and  that 
therefore  the  total  abolitionists  are  irrational  and  wrong- 
headed. But  the  procession  completely  converted  me.  For 
so  large  a number  of  the  people  using  draught-horses  in  it 
were  so  clearly  unable  to  use  them  without  abusing  them, 
that  I perceived  total  abstinence  from  horseflesh  to  be  the 
only  remedy  of  which  the  case  admitted.  As  it  is  all  one  to 
teetotallers  whether  you  take  half  a pint  of  beer  or  half  a 
gallon,  so  it  was  all  one  here  whether  the  beast  of  burden 
were  a pony  or  a cart-horse.  Indeed,  my  case  had  the  special 
strength  that  the  half-pint  quadruped  underwent  as  much 
suffering  as  the  half-gallon  quadruped.  Moral:  total  absti- 
nence from  horseflesh  through  the  whole  length  and  breadth 
of  the  scale.  This  pledge  will  be  in  course  of  administration 
to  all  teetotal  processionists,  not  pedestrians,  at  the  publish- 
ing office  of  “All  the  Year  Eound,’^  on  the  1st  day  of  April, 
1870. 

Observe  a point  for  consideration.  This  procession  com- 
prised many  persons  in  their  gigs,  broughams,  tax-carts. 


372 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


barouches,  chaises,  and  what  not,  who  were  merciful  to  the 
dumb  beasts  that  drew  them,  and  did  not  overcharge  their 
strength.  What  is  to  be  done  with  those  unoffending  per- 
sons ? I will  not  run  a muck  and  vilify  and  defame  them,  as 
teetotal  tracts  and  platforms  would  most  assuredly  do,  if  the 
question  were  one  of  drinking  instead  of  driving : I merely 
ask  what  is  to  be  done  with  them?  The  reply  admits  of  no 
dispute  whatever.  Manifestly,  in  strict  accordance  with  tee- 
total doctrines,  they  must  come  in  too,  and  take  the  total 
abstinence  from  horseflesh  pledge.  It  is  not  pretended  that 
those  members  of  the  procession  misused  certain  auxiliaries 
which  in  most  countries  and  all  ages  have  been  bestowed  upon 
man  for  his  use,  but  it  is  undeniable  that  other  members  of  the 
procession  did.  Teetotal  mathematics  demonstrate  that  the 
less  includes  the  greater;  that  the  guilty  include  the  inno- 
cent, the  blind  the  seeing,  the  deaf  the  hearing,  the  dumb  the 
speaking,  the  drunken  the  sober.  If  any  of  the  moderate 
users  of  draught-cattle  in  question  should  deem  that  there  is 
any  gentle  violence  done  to  their  reason  by  these  elements  of 
logic,  they  are  invited  to  come  out  of  the  procession  next  Whit- 
suntide, and  look  at  it  from  my  window. 


THE  UNCOMMEBCIAL  TBAVELLER. 


373 


XXXVI. 

THE  RUFFIAIf. 

I ENTERTAIN  SO  stroHg  an  objection  to  the  euphonious 
softening  of  Euffian  into  Kough,  which  has  lately  become 
popular,  that  I restore  the  right  word  to  the  heading  of  this 
paper;  the  rather,  as  my  object  is  to  dwell  upon  the  fact  that 
the  Euffian  is  tolerated  among  us  to  an  extent  that  goes 
beyond  all  unruffianly  endurance.  I take  the  liberty  to 
believe  that  if  the  Euffian  besets  my  life,  a professional 
Euffian  at  large  in  the  open  streets  of  a great  city,  notoriously 
having  no  other  calling  than  that  of  Euffian,  and  of  dis- 
quieting and  despoiling  me  as  I go  peacefully  about  my 
lawful  business,  interfering  with  no  one,  then  the  Govern- 
ment under  which  I have  the  great  constitutional  privilege, 
supreme  honor  and  happiness,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  to  exist, 
breaks  down  in  the  discharge  of  any  Government’s  most 
simple  elementary  duty. 

What  did  I read  in  the  London  daily  papers,  in  the  early 
days  of  this  last  September  ? That  the  Police  had  At 

LENGTH  SUCCEEDED  IN  CAPTURING  TwO  OF  THE  NOTORIOUS 
GANG  THAT  HAVE  SO  LONG  INFESTED  THE  WATERLOO  EoAD.” 

Is  it  possible  ? What  a wonderful  Police  ! Here  is  a straight, 
broad,  public  thoroughfare  of  immense  resort;  half  a mile 
long ; gas-lighted  by  night ; with  a great  gas-lighted  railway 
station  in  it,  extra  the  street  lamps ; full  of  shops ; traversed 
by  two  popular  cross  thoroughfares  of  considerable  traffic ; 
itself  the  main  road  to  the  South  of  London  ; and  the  admira- 
ble Police  have,  after  long  infestment  of  this  dark  and  lonely 
spot  by  a gang  of  Euffians,  actually  got  hold  of  two  of  them. 
Why,  can  it  be  doubted  that  any  man  of  fair  London  knowl- 
edge and  common  resolution,  armed  with  the  powers  of  the 
Law,  could  have  captured  the  whole  confederacy  in  a week  ? 

It  is  to  the  saving-up  of  the  Euffian  class  by  the  Magis- 


374 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


tracy  and  Police — to  the  conventional  preserving  of  them,  as 
if  they  were  Partridges  — that  their  number  and  audacity 
must  be  in  great  part  referred.  Why  is  a notorious  Thief 
and  Euffian  ever  left  at  large  ? He  never  turns  his  liberty 
to  any  account  but  violence  and  plunder,  he  never  did  a day’s 
work  out  of  jail,  he  never  will  do  a day’s  work  out  of  jail. 
As  a proved  notorious  Thief  he  is  always  consignable  to 
prison  for  three  months.  When  he  comes  out,  he  is  surely 
as  notorious  a Thief  as  he  was  when  he  went  in.  Then  send 
him  back  again.  Just  Heaven  !”  cries  the  Society  for  the 
protection  of  remonstrant  Euffians.  This  is  equivalent  to  a 
sentence  of  perpetual  imprisonment ! ” Precisely  for  that 
reason  it  has  my  advocacy.  I demand  to  have  the  Euffian 
kept  out  of  my  way,  and  out  of  the  way  of  all  decent  people. 
I demand  to  have  the  Euffian  employed,  perforce,  in  hewing 
wood  and  drawing  water  somewhere  for  the  general  service, 
instead  of  hewing  at  her  Majesty’s  subjects  and  drawing 
their  watches  out  of  their  pockets.  If  this  be  termed  an 
unreasonable  demand,  then  the  tax-gatherer’s  demand  on 
me  must  be  far  more  unreasonable,  and  cannot  be  otherwise 
than  extortionate  and  unjust. 

It  will  be  seen  that  I treat  of  the  Thief  and  Euffian  as  one. 
I do  so,  because  I know  the  two  characters  to  be  one,  in  the 
vast  majority  of  cases,  just  as  well  as  the  Police  know  it. 
(As  to  the  Magistracy,  with  a few  exceptions,  they  know 
nothing  about  it  but  what  the  Police  choose  to  tell  them.) 
There  are  disorderly  classes  of  men  who  are  not  thieves ; as 
railway-navigators,  brickmakers,  wood-sawyers,  costermongers. 
These  classes  are  often  disorderly  and  troublesome ; but  it 
is  mostly  among  themselves,  and  at  any  rate  they  have  their 
industrious  avocations,  they  work  early  and  late,  and  work 
hard.  The  generic  Euffian  — honorable  member  for  what  is 
tenderly  called  the  Eough  Element  — is  either  a Thief,  or  the 
companion  of  Thieves.  When  he  infamously  molests  women 
coming  out  of  chapel  on  Sunday  evenings  (for  which  I would 
have  his  back  scarified  often  and  deep)  it  is  not  only  for  the 
gratification  of  his  pleasant  instincts,  but  that  there  may  be 
a confusion  raised  by  which  either  he  or  his  friends  may 
profit,  in  the  commission  of  highway  robberies  or  in  picking 


THE  UNC03IMEECIAL  TBAVELLER, 


375 


pockets.  When  he  gets  a police-constable  down  and  kicks 
him  helpless  for  life,  it  is  because  that  constable  once  did  his 
duty  in  bringing  him  to  justice.  When  he  rushes  into  the 
bar  of  a public-house  and  scoops  an  eye  out  of  one  of  the 
company  there,  or  bites  his  ear  off,  it  is  because  the  man  he 
maims  gave  evidence  against  him.  When  he  and  a line  of 
comrades  extending  across  the  footway  — say  of  that  solitary 
mountain-spur  of  the  Abruzzi,  the  Waterloo  Koad  — advance 
towards  me  skylarking  ’’  among  themselves,  my  purse  or 
shirt-pin  is  in  predestined  peril  from  his  playfulness.  Always 
a Euffian,  always  a Thief.  Always  a Thief,  always  a Kuffian. 

Now,  when  I,  who  am  not  paid  to  know  these  things,  know 
them  daily  on  the  evidence  of  my  senses  and  experience  ; 
when  I know  that  the  Euffian  never  jostles  a lady  in  the 
street,  or  knocks  a hat  off,  but  in  order  that  the  Thief  may 
profit,  is  it  surprising  that  I should  require  from  those  who 
are  paid  to  know  these  things,  prevention  of  them  ? 

Look  at  this  group  at  a street  corner.  Number  one  is  a 
shirking  fellow  of  five  and  twenty,  in  an  ill-favored  and  ill- 
savored  suit,  his  trousers  of  corduroy,  his  coat  of  some 
indiscernible  groundwork  for  the  deposition  of  grease,  his 
neckerchief  like  an  eel,  his  complexion  like  dirty  dough,  his 
mangy  fur  cap  pulled  low  upon  his  beetle  brows  to  hide  the 
prison  cut  of  his  hair.  His  hands  are  in  his  pockets.  He 
puts  them  there  when  they  are  idle,  as  naturally  as  in  other 
people’s  pockets  when  they  are  busy,  for  he  knows  that  they 
are  not  roughened  by  work,  and  that  they  tell  a tale.  Hence, 
whenever  he  takes  one  out  to  draw  a sleeve  across  his  nose  — 
which  is  often,  for  he  has  weak  eyes  and  a constitutional  cold 
in  his  head  — he  restores  it  to  its  pocket  immediately  after- 
wards. Number  two  is  a burly  brute  of  five  and  thirty,  in  a 
tall  stiff  hat ; is  a composite  as  to  his  clothes  of  betting-man 
and  fighting-man ; is  whiskered ; has  a staring  pin  in  his 
breast,  along  with  his  right  hand ; has  insolent  and  cruel 
eyes ; large  shoulders ; strong  legs,  booted  and  tipped  for 
kicking.  Number  three  is  forty  years  of  age ; is  short,  thick- 
set, strong,  and  bow-legged;  wears  knee  cords  and  white 
stockings,  a very  long-sleeved  waistcoat,  a very  large  necker- 
chief doubled  or  trebled  round  his  throat,  and  a crumpled 


376 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


white  hat  crowns  his  ghastly  parchment  face.  This  fellow 
looks  like  an  executed  j)ostboy  of  other  days,  cut  down  from 
the  gallows  too  soon,  and  restored  and  preserved  by  express 
diabolical  agency.  Numbers  five,  six,  and  seven,  are  hulking, 
idle,  slouching  young  men,  patched  and  shabby,  too  short  in 
the  sleeves  and  too  tight  in  the  legs,  slimily  clothed,  foul- 
spoken,  repulsive  wretches  inside  and  out.  In  all  the  party 
there  obtains  a certain  twitching  character  of  mouth  and 
furtiveness  of  eye,  that  hint  how  the  coward  is  lurking  under 
the  bully.  The  hint  is  quite  correct,  for  they  are  a slinking 
sneaking  set,  far  more  prone  to  lie  down  on  their  backs  and 
kick  out,  when  in  difficulty,  than  to  make  a stand  for  it. 
(This  may  account  for  the  street  mud  on  the  backs  of  Num- 
bers five,  six,  and  seven,  being  much  fresher  than  the  stale 
splashes  on  their  legs.) 

These  engaging  gentry  a Police-constable  stands  contem- 
plating. His  Station,  with  a Keserve  of  assistance,  is  very 
near  at  hand.  They  cannot  pretend  to  any  trade,  not  even 
to  be  porters  or  messengers.  It  would  be  idle  if  they  did, 
for  he  knows  them,  and  they  know  that  he  knows  them,  to 
be  nothing  but  professed  Thieves  and  Kuffians.  He  knows 
where  they  resort,  knows  by  what  slang  names  they  call  one 
another,  knows  how  often  they  have  been  in  prison,  and  how 
long,  and  for  what.  All  this  is  known  at  his  Station,  too, 
and  is  (or  ought  to  be)  known  at  Scotland  Yard,  too.  But 
does  he  know,  or  does  his  Station  know,  or  does  Scotland 
Yard  know,  or  does  anybody  know,  why  these  fellows  should 
be  here  at  liberty,  when,  as  reputed  Thieves  to  whom  a whole 
Division  of  Police  could  swear,  they  might  all  be  under  lock 
and  key  at  hard  labor?  Not  he;  truly  he  would  be  a wise 
man  if  he  did ! He  only  knows  that  these  are  members  of 
the  notorious  gang,’’  which,  according  to  the  newspaper 
Police-office  reports  of  this  last  past  September,  ^^have  so 
long  infested”  the  awful  solitudes  of  the, Waterloo  Eoad,  and 
out  of  which  almost  impregnable  fastnesses  the  Police  have 
at  length  dragged  Two,  to  the  unspeakable  admiration  of  all 
good  civilians. 

The  consequences  of  this  contemplative  habit  on  the  part 
of  the  Executive  — a habit  to  be  looked  for  in  a hermit,  but 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


377 


not  in  a Police  System  — are  familiar  to  us  all.  The  Euffian 
becomes  one  of  the  established  orders  of  the  body  politic. 
Under  the  playful  name  of  Eough  (as  if  he  were  merely  a 
practical  joker)  his  movements  and  successes  are  recorded  on 
public  occasions.  Whether  he  mustered  in  large  numbers, 
or  small ; whether  he  was  in  good  spirits,  or  depressed ; 
whether  he  turned  his  generous  exertions  to  very  prosperous 
account,  or  Fortune  was  against  him ; whether  he  was  in  a 
sanguinary  mood,  or  robbed  with  amiable  horse-play  and 
a gracious  consideration  for  life  and  limb  ; all  this  is  chroni- 
cled as  if  he  were  an  Institution.  Is  there  any  city  in  Europe, 
out  of  England,  in  which  these  terms  are  held  with  the  pests 
of  Society  ? Or  in  which,  at  this  day,  such  violent  robberies 
from  the  person  are  constantly  committed  as  in  London  ? 

The  Preparatory  Schools  of  Kuffianism  are  similarly  borne 
with.  The  young  Puffians  of  London  — not  Thieves  yet,  but 
training  for  scholarships  and  fellowships  in  the  Criminal 
Court  Universities  — molest  quiet  people  and  their  property 
to  an  extent  that  is  hardly  credible.  The  throwing  of  stones 
in  the  streets  has  become  a dangerous  and  destructive  offence, 
which  surely  could  have  got  to  no  greater  height  though  we 
had  had  no  Police  but  our  own  riding-whips  and  walking- 
sticks  — the  Police  to  which  I myself  appeal  on  these  occa- 
sions. The  throwing  of  stones  at  the  windows  ^f  railway 
carriages  in  motion  — an  act  of  wanton  wickedness  with  the 
very  Arch-Fiend’s  hand  in  it  — had  become  a crying  evil, 
when  the  railway  companies  forced  it  on  Police  notice. 
Constabular  contemplation  had  until  then  been  the  order  of 
the  day. 

Within  these  twelve  months,  there  arose  among  the  young 
gentlemen  of  London  aspiring  to  Kuffianism,  and  cultivating 
that  much-encouraged  social  art,  a facetious  cry  of  I’ll  have 
this  ! ” accompanied  with  a clutch  at  some  article  of  a passing 
lady’s  dress.  I have  known  a lady’s  veil  to  be  thus  humor- 
ously torn  from  her  face  and  carried  off  in  the  open  streets  at 
noon ; and  I have  had  the  honor  of  myself  giving  chase,  on 
Westminster  Bridge,  to  another  young  Kuffian,  who,  in  full 
daylight  early  on  a summer  evening,  had  nearly  thrown  a 
modest  young  woman  into  a swoon  of  indignation  and  confu- 


378 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


sion,  by  his  shameful  manner  of  attacking  her  with  this  cry 
as  she  harmlessly  passed  along  before  me.  Mr.  Carlyle, 
some  time  since,  awakened  a little  pleasantry  by  writing  of 
his  own  experience  of  the  Euffian  of  the  streets.  I have  seen 
the  Euffian  act  in  exact  accordance  with  Mr.  Carlyle’s  descrip- 
tion, innumerable  times,  and  I never  saw  him  checked. 

The  blaring  use  of  the  very  worst  language  possible,  in 
our  public  thoroughfares  — especially  in  those  set  apart  for 
recreation  — is  another  disgrace  to  us,  and  another  result  of 
constabular  contemplation,  the  like  of  which  I have  never 
heard  in  any  other  country  to  which  my  uncommercial  travels 
have  extended.  Years  ago,  when  1 had  a near  interest  in 
certain  children  who  were  sent  with  their  nurses,  for  air  and 
exercise,  into  the  Eegent’s  Park,  I found  this  evil  to  be  so 
abhorrent  and  horrible  there,  that  I called  public  attention 
to  it,  and  also  to  its  contemplative  reception  by  the  Police. 
Looking  afterwards  into  the  newest  Police  Act,  and  finding 
that  the  offence  was  punishable  under  it,  I resolved,  when 
striking  occasion  should  arise,  to  try  my  hand  as  prosecutor. 
The  occasion  arose  soon  enough,  and  I ran  the  following 
gantlet. 

The  utterer  of  the  base  coin  in  question  was  a girl  of 
seventeen  or  eighteen,  who,  with  a suitable  attendance  of 
blackguards,  youths,  and  boys,  was  flaunting  along  the  streets, 
returning  from  an  Irish  funeral,  in  a progress  interspersed 
with  singing  and  dancing.  She  had  turned  round  to  me  and 
expressed  herself  in  the  most  audible  manner,  to  the  great 
delight  of  that  select  circle.  I attended  the  party,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  for  a mile  further,  and  then  encoun- 
tered a Police-constable.  The  party  had  made  themselves 
merry  at  my  expense  until  now,  but  seeing  me  speak  to  the 
constable,  its  male  members  instantly  took  to  their  heels, 
leaving  the  girl  alone.  I asked  the  constable  did  he  know 
my  name?  Yes,  he  did.  ^^Take  that  girl  into  custody,  on 
my  charge,  for  using  bad  language  in  the  streets.”  ^ He  had 
never  heard  of  such  a charge.  I had.  Would  he  take  my 
word  that  he  should  get  into  no  trouble  ? Yes,  sir,  he  would 
do  that.  So  he  took  the  girl,  and  I went  home  for  my 
Police  Act. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


379 


With  this  potent  instrument  in  my  pocket,  I literally  as 
well  as  figuratively  returned  to  the  charge,’’  and  presented 
myself  at  the  Police  Station  of  the  district.  There,  I found 
on  duty  a very  intelligent  Inspector  (they  are  all  intelligent 
men),  who,  likewise,  had  never  heard  of  such  a charge.  I 
showed  him  my  clause,  and  we  went  over  it  together  twice  or 
thrice.  It  was  plain,  and  I engaged  to  wait  upon  the  suburban 
Magistrate  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o’clock. 

In  the  morning,  I put  my  Police  Act  in  my  pocket  again, 
and  waited  on  the  suburban  Magistrate.  I was  not  quite  so 
courteously  received  by  him  as  I should  have  been  by  The 
Lord  Chancellor  or  The  Lord  Chief  Justice,  but  that  was  a 
question  of  good  breeding  on  the  suburban  Magistrate’s  part, 
and  I had  my  clause  ready  with  its  leaf  turned  down.  Which 
was  enough  for  me. 

Conference  took  place  between  the  Magistrate  and  clerk 
respecting  the  charge.  During  conference  I was  evidently 
regarded  as  a much  more  objectionable  person  than  the  pris- 
oner ; — one  giving  trouble  by  coming  there  voluntarily, 
which  the  prisoner  could  not  be  accused  of  doing.  The 
prisoner  had  been  got  up,  since  I last  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  her,  with  a great  effect  of  white  apron  and  straw 
bonnet.  She  reminded  me  of  an  elder  sister  of  Ked  Riding 
Hood,  and  I seemed  to  remind  the  sympathizing  Chimney 
Sweep  by  whom  she  was  attended,  of  the  Wolf. 

The  Magistrate  was  doubtful,  Mr.  Uncommercial  Traveller, 
whether  this  charge  could  be  entertained.  It  was  not  known. 
Mr.  Uncommercial  Traveller  replied  that  he  wished  it  were 
better  known,  and  that,  if  he  could  afford  the  leisure,  he 
would  use  his  endeavors  to  make  it  so.  There  was  no 
question  about  it,  however,  he  contended.  Here  was  the 
clause. 

The  clause  was  handed  in,  and  more  conference  resulted. 
After  which  I was  asked  the  extraordinary  question : Mr. 
Uncommercial,  do  you  really  wish  this  girl  to  be  sent  to 
prison  ? ” To  which  I grimly  answered,  staring : if  I 
didn’t,  why  should  I take  the  trouble  to  come  here  ? ” 
Finally,  I was  sworn,  and  gave  my  agreeable  evidence  in 
detail,  and  White  Riding  Hood  was  fined  ten  shillings,  under 


380 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  clause,  or  sent  to  prison  for  so  many  days.  Why,  Lord 
bless  you,  sir,’^  said  the  Police-officer,  who  showed  me  out, 
with  a great  enjoyment  of  the  jest  of  her  having  been  got  up 
so  effectively,  and  caused  so  much  hesitation:  ^^if  she  goes 
to  prison,  that  will  be  nothing  new  to  her.  She  comes  from 
Charles  Street,  Drury  Lane  ! ’’ 

The  Police,  all  things  considered,  are  an  excellent  force, 
and  I have  borne  my  small  testimony  to  their  merits.  Con- 
stabular  contemplation  is  the  result  of  a bad  system ; a 
system  which  is  administered,  not  invented,  by  the  man  in 
constable’s  uniform,  employed  at  twenty  shillings  a week. 
He  has  his  orders,  and  would  be  marked  for  discouragement 
if  he  overstepped  them.  That  the  system  is  bad,  there  needs 
no  lengthened  argument  to  prove,  because  the  fact  is  self- 
evident.  If  it  were  anything  else,  the  results  that  have 
attended  it  could  not  possibly  have  come  to  pass.  Who  will 
say  that  under  a good  system,  our  streets  could  have  got  into 
their  present  state  ? 

The  objection  to  the  whole  Police  system,  as  concerning 
the  Puffian,  may  be  stated,  and  its  failure  exemplified,  as 
follows.  It  is  well  known  that  on  all  great  occasions,  when 
they  come  together  in  numbers,  the  mass  of  the  English 
people  are  their  own  trustworthy  Police.  It  is  well  known 
that  wheresoever  there  is  collected  together  any  fair  general 
representation  of  the  people,  a respect  for  law  and  order,  and 
a determination  to  discountenance  lawlessness  and  disorder, 
may  be  relied  upon.  As  to  one  another,  the  people  are  a 
very  good  Police,  and  yet  are  quite  willing  in  their  good- 
nature that  the  stipendiary  Police  should  have  the  credit  of 
the  people’s  moderation.  But  we  are  all  of  us  powerless 
against  the  Ruffian,  because  we  submit  to  the  law,  and  it  is 
his  only  trade,  by  superior  force  and  by  violence  to  defy  it. 
Moreover,  we  are  constantly  admonished  from  high  places 
(like  so  many  Sunday-school  children  out  for  a holiday  of 
buns  and  milk  and  water)  that  we  are  not  to  take  the  law 
into  our  own  hands,  but  are  to  hand  our  defence  over  to  it. 
It  is  clear  that  the  common  enemy  to  be  punished  and  exter- 
minated first  of  all  is  the  Ruffian.  It  is  clear  that  he  is,  of  . 
all  others,  the  offender  for  whose  repressal  we  maintain  a ^ 


THE  VNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


381 


costly  system  of  Police.  Him,  therefore,  we  expressly  pre- 
sent to  the  Police  to  deal  with,  conscious  that,  on  the  whole, 
we  can,  and  do,  deal  reasonably  well  with  one  another.  Him 
the  Police  deal  with  so  inefficiently  and  absurdly  that  he 
flourishes,  and  multiplies,  and,  with  all  his  evil  deeds  upon 
his  head  as  notoriously  as  his  hat  is,  pervades  the  streets 
with  no  more  let  or  hindrance  than  ourselves. 


THE  END. 


j 


rt 


i 


1(7 


t 


